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OEM  SKIES  ^ND 
CLOUDY 

CHARLES  C 


MUDELPHL4  &  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1898 

BY 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


To  the 

Amateur  Naturalists 

and  to  whomsoever  loves  an  outing,  and  to 
every  Audubon  Society  in  these 

United  States, 
these  desultory  papers  on 

subjects  closely  akin  to  their  aims  and  pleasures 

are  respectfully  dedicated 

by 

The  Author 

THREE  BEECHES,  January  12,  1898 


2128955 


Preface. 

H.E  who  keeps  even  so  simple  a  matter  as  a 
record  of  the  weather  will  find  that  the  years 
are  not  very  much  alike.  At  this  writing  there 
is  that  contradiction,  a  warm  east  rain  prevail- 
ing, although  mid-January,  and  a  year  ago,  this 
date,  it  was  clear  and  cold  ;  and  so  with  prac- 
tically every  feature  of  Nature,  comparing  the 
days  of  one  year  with  another.  The  rambler 
finds  that  history  does  not  repeat  itself,  except 
where  the  principal  phenomena  are  grouped. 
Birds  nest  in  May  and  June  and  migrants  come 
and  go  at  about  the  same  time,  but  the  success 
of  some  outing  that  is  vividly  remembered  is 
not  likely  to  be  repeated  when  you  go  again  on 
the  morning  of  your  red-letter  day  to  the  same 
upland  field,  deep,  dark  wood,  or  open,  sunny 
meadow.  Would  it  be  well  if  it  were  so? 
There  is  more  merit  in  uncertainty  than  satis- 
faction in  foreknowledge.  The  latter  smacks 

7 


8  Preface. 

of  omniscience  as  derisively  applied  to  hu- 
manity, and  such  unfortunates  are  apt  to  bore 
us. 

To  foresee  the  flowers  and  forehear  the  birds 
might  be  sufficiently  satisfactory,  if  you  are 
lazily  inclined,  and  so  the  suggested  outing  fore- 
done,  which  means  staying  in-doors  and  doing 
nothing.  The  ever-present  possibility  of  nov- 
elty is  an  incentive  that  should  prove  all-power- 
ful, and  nowhere  is  the  world  so  worn  out  that 
the  unexpected  may  not  happen.  What  of 
the  showers  of  frogs,  fish,  and  worms  of  which 
we  sometimes  read  ?  To  be  caught  in  such  a 
shower,  and  without  an  umbrella  too,  would 
probably  stir  up  the  dormant  instincts  that 
make  us  all  curious  as  to  Nature  in  her  playful 
moods.  It  ought  to,  if  it  does  not. 

It  was  not  long  ago  that  a  distinguished 
archaeologist  came  to  this  neighborhood  to  see 
the  indubitable  evidences  of  man's  antiquity 
that  had  recently  been  unearthed.  He  came 
late  in  the  day,  but  in  time  to  see  what  was  to 
me  of  much  greater  interest,  a  superb  sunset. 
His  attention  was  called  to  it,  but  he  replied 
with  a  groan,  and  not  looking  up  even,  as  he 


Preface.  9 

spoke,  "  I  have  not  had  my  dinner.  Can't  the 
sunset  wait?" 

One  of  the  few  facts  about  which  there  can 
be  no  disputing  is,  that  Nature  will  not  wait 
for  us  :  to  secure  her  favor  we  must  do  the 
waiting.  I  was  not  surprised,  however,  at  the 
remark  made  by  the  hungry  savant,  for  there 
never  was  so  enthusiastic  a  nature-lover  yet  that 
at  times  his  stomach  did  not  rule  his  head  and 
heart ;  but  enthusiasm  should  be  pitched  to 
such  a  key  that  we,  at  least,  prefer  suffering 
under  clear  skies  rather  than  cloudy.  Without 
a  willingness  to  suffer  in  some  slight  degree, 
the  rambler  makes  little  progress  in  instructive 
observation.  The  best  of  what  is  out  of  doors 
is  not  always  at  arm's  length.  Healthy  enthu- 
siasm is  a  rational  phase  of  the  spirit  of  adven- 
ture, but  adventure  does  not  necessarily  mean 
distance,  be  it  understood.  The  dimly  out- 
lined forest  that  you  people  with  many  novel- 
ties too  often  proves  a  tamer  wood-lot  than  your 
own  back  yard. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  "  the  loathsome 
and  the  dangerous  in  nature"  should  be  slurred 
over  on  account  of  the  readers'  prejudices, 


i  o  Preface. 

which  are  intensified  and  not  set  aright  by  the 
author  telling  the  plain  truth.  The  rambler 
and  the  author  should  always  remain  as  widely 
apart  as  the  poles.  Certainly — not  merely  prob- 
ably or  possibly,  but  certainly — the  rambler  so 
far  unfits  himself  to  ramble  if  he  has  at  the 
outset  the  subsequent  role  of  authorship  in 
mind.  This  is  evident  if  we  give  the  subject  a 
moment  of  calm  consideration.  What  will  go 
to  the  making  of  the  liveliest  essay?  is  the  in- 
evitable question,  and  deciding  upon  some  sure- 
to-be-seen  bird  or  flower,  you  face  but  blurred 
images  of  everything  save  the  selected  flower 
or  bird.  Literally,  you  have  been  walking  and 
actually  seen  some  object  of  more  or  less  in- 
terest, but  this  is  far  removed  from  a  genuine 
ramble,  when  you  live  up  to  the  golden  rule 
of  equal  consideration  for  all.  The  essay  is 
written,  but  is  it  not  unfair  to  the  central  ob- 
ject? Why  not  overcome  our  prejudices  and 
accept  the  world  as  it  is?  To  take  our  most 
gorgeous  beetle  from  his  chosen  home  and  set 
him  upon  a  rose-bud  may  suit  the  delicate 
nerves  of  my  lady  fair,  but  what  of  Nature  ? 
Are  we  to  say  outright  that  Nature  is  indeli- 


Preface.  1 1 

cate,  lacks  taste,  and  is  all  unworthy  of  entrance 
into  the  courts  of  the  refined  ?  Out  upon  such 
rot !  Have  you  seen  your  bird  and  flower  as  it 
really  is  when  you  have  seen  nothing  but  it? 
That  which  led  to  it,  and  all  that  filled  the 
world  when  it  itself  passed  from  view,  had  some 
bearing  upon  it  which  you  have  missed.  If  to 
reach  some  desired  bird  or  flower  you  have  to 
pass  through  a  den  of  snakes,  do  so,  and  if 
moved  to  tell  your  story,  say  so.  Do  not  slur 
over  snakes  for  sake  of  any  supposed  objection 
to  them.  Serpents  are  as  much  a  part  of 
Nature  as  any  flower  of  hill  or  dale.  I  never 
heard  more  exhilarating  songs  than  those  of  the 
Carolina  wren,  that  stays  all  day  in  the  barn- 
yard and  roosts,  for  aught  I  know,  in  the  pig- 
pen ;  and  I  do  not  propose  to  transplant  that 
bird  to  the  flower-garden  or  set  it  up  on  the 
lawn  to  slur  over  the  prosaic  truth. 

Having  rambled  as  Nature's  guest,  do  not 
be  mean  enough  to  misrepresent  her.  The 
"loathsome  and  dangerous"  must  not  be  over- 
looked if  the  author  is  true  to  her,  and  loyalty 
there,  rather  than  to  people's  prejudices,  should 
be  his  ambition.  If  seen  aright,  Nature  is 


1 2  Preface. 

never  loathsome ;  it  is  only  the  unhealthy 
human  being  that  is  excited  to  nausea  and 
disgust,  as  the  dictionary  puts  it,  by  Nature, 
whatsoever  the  form  she  takes  or  work  she 
performs.  To  slur  certain  phases  of  natural 
operations  over  is  simply  to  be  a  coward,  and 
no  author  but  should  care  infinitely  more  about 
himself  than  about  his  readers.  The  author  is 
not  his  brother's  keeper  to  such  an  extent  that 
he  must  neglect  himself. 

This  is  a  tempting  subject,  but  I  forbear. 
My  little  day  has  been  spent  with  few  people, 
and  usually  with  none  at  all.  Possibly  I  am 
all  wrong, — certainly  I  do  not  care  ;  but  will 
remain  happy  until  I  can  no  longer  see  a  sun- 
set  or  hear  a  song-sparrow. 

It  may  interest  the  reader  to  know  that  the 
accompanying  illustrations  were  all  taken  by  or 
for  the  author,  and  are  points  of  view  at  his 
own  home,  or  just  over  the  boundary,  on  the 
lands  of  his  neighbors. 

C.  C.  A. 

THREE  BEECHES,  June  2,  1898. 


Contents. 


PAGE 

FROST  FOLIAGE 17 

AN  ICE-BOUND  BROOK 24 

WINTER  BELLS 33 

A  CORVINE  CONGRESS 42 

AFTER  THE  STORM     55 

HEARD  ON  THE  HILL-SIDE 64 

BLUNDERS  IN  BIRD-NESTING 76 

A  MORNING  IN  MAY     82 

DINNER  AT  NOON 95 

THE  POETRY  OF  SHELTER     107 

MY  ELM-TREE  ORIOLE 122 

SHORT  SUMMER  DAYS 137 

AN  OCTOBER  OUTING 148 

A  NORTHEAST  STORM 162 

IN  DEFENCE  OF  DESOLATION 170 

A  VERY  OLD  MILESTONE 189 

CHRISTMAS  OUT  OF  DOORS 201 

THE  CHARM  OF  THE  INEXACT 208 

THE  RUSTIC  :  A  PROTEST 217 

THE  UNLETTERED  LEARNED 226 

THE  COMFORT  OF  OLD  CLOTHES 236 

IN  DEEP,  DARK  WOODS 243 

CORRESPONDENTS  AND  CRITICS    ,                                .  262 


List  of  Illustrations. 


PAGE 

THE  RUSTIC  BRIDGE Frontispiece. 

WHEN  ARCTIC  CONDITIONS  PREVAILED 18 

A  MERE  REMNANT  NOW  OF  THE  STREAM  OF  OTHER 

DAYS 29 

A  REMOTE,  WEED-GROWN,  LONG  NEGLECTED  MEADOW  34 
THE  GULLY  THROUGH  WHICH  HURRIES  AN  UPLAND 

BROOK 43 

MEADOWS  NO  LONGER,  BUT  A  LOVELY  LAKE  ....  56 

THE  OLD  FLOOD-GATES 88 

THE  FARTHEST  THICKET — THE  MOST  DISMAL  SWAMP  94 
OUR  WILDEST  WILDERNESS  is  A  RATHER  TAME  AF- 
FAIR      103 

WHERE  OLD  POAETQUISSINGS  WIDENS  TO  A  LITTLE 

LAKE 109 

OVERSHADOWED  BY  TALL  AND  STATELY  OAKS    .   .    .  138 

IN  THE  CLEAR  WATER  I  SAW  MANY  SILVERY  FISHES  142 

THE  LOW-LYING  MEADOWS 150 

THE  CROSSWICKS   MARSHES 154 

A  NOVEMBER  AFTERNOON 171 

AN  OLD  WORM-FENCE  ON  ONE  SIDE  AND  WOODS  ON 

THE  OTHER 192 

IN  DEEP,  DARK  WOODS 243 

WOODS  DURING  PLEASANT  JANUARY  DAYS 256 

THE  TRUNKS  OF  MAJESTIC,  TIME-HONORED  BEECHES  257 

IS 


Frost  Foliage. 

A  WONDER-WORKER  is  this  elfish  frost 
He  deals  not  only  in  fantastic  shapes,  but 
crowds  the  fields  in  a  single  night  with  glitter- 
ing, crystalline  ghosts  of  dead  summer's  blos- 
soms. At  daybreak  they  tremble  in  the  rest- 
less wind  and  tearfully  stand  their  ground  at 
sunrise.  Their  master,  arrant  coward,  has  hid* 
den  in  the  shadows.  The  rising  sun  breaks 
the  spell  and  the  ghosts  are  gone. 

Emboldened  by  the  north  wind,  it  some- 
times happens  that  frost  works  with  greater 
vigor  through  the  watches  of  the  night,  and 
then  there  are  not  only  the  same  dainty  blos- 
soms as  before,  but  the  skeletons  of  the  frail 
growths  of  summer  are  rebuilt  in  crystal ; — 
firmly  rebuilt,  and  so  rugged  that  the  sun's 
level  rays  only  add  to  their  splendor,  and  for 
half  a  day,  the  fields  are  prismatic  instead  of 
brown,  and  so  brilliant  that  all  we  recall  of 

2  17 


i8 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


summer's  best  efforts  seem  crude  and  merely 
gaudy,  never  grand. 

Frost  is  crowned  king  when  autumn  wears 
away,  and  then  the  poetry  of  his  early  efforts, 
when  a  petty  prince,  gives  place  to  sturdy 
building  that  defies  the  jealous  sun.  Even  the 


river  yields  to  his  command,  and  we  have  an 
after-taste  of  the  time  when  arctic  conditions 
prevailed  and  men  who  wandered  in  this  river 
valley  were  held  back  by  a  mighty  glacier. 
Long  ago,  but  not  all  trace  of  it  has  vanished. 


Frost  Foliage.  19 

Even  the  finger-marks  of  man  have  not  been 
erased.  Likewise,  too,  every  babbling  brook 
and  rippling  creek  is  silent  in  his  presence. 

Given  the  water  turned  to  rock,  the  ground 
covered  with  snow  and  moonlight, — these  to- 
gether,— and  we  have  that  "  all  silence  and  all 
glisten"  that  Lowell  used  as  a  background  to  a 
charming  in- door  scene  ;  but  what  of  this  back- 
ground itself,  and  more  particularly  when  there 
is  sound  instead  of  silence,  and  sunlight  instead 
of  pallid  moonshine  ?  The  air  to-day  was  full 
of  frozen  mist,  invisible  needle-points,  that 
pricked  the  skin  and  played  painful  pranks 
with  the  ears  of  pedestrians  ;  but,  putting  aside 
such  minor  inconveniences  as  this,  can  we  put 
on  a  real  winter  change  and  be  as  much  one 
with  Nature  now  as  in  summer?  It  is  a  ques- 
tion I  have  often  asked,  and  if  the  columns  of 
answers  were  added  up,  I  fear  the  result  would 
show  that  one  pedestrian  at  least  is  a  tropical 
animal.  There  is  a  greater  effort  needed  now 
to  meet  Nature's  requirements.  More  clothing, 
more  food,  and  artificial  heat,  if  we  halt  upon 
our  journey  ;  but  are  we  not  repaid  ?  Can  the 
result  be  looked  upon  with  doubt  when  we  sum 


2O  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

up  the  joys  of  a  winter  camp-fire  ?  I  do  not 
mean  a  blazing  roar  of  consuming  logs  and  a 
crowd  about  it, — from  such  defend  me, — but  in 
some  sheltered  nook  to  kindle  a  few  gathered 
twigs,  and,  absorbing  all  the  heat,  come  in 
closest  contact  with  Nature  in  the  days  of  frosti- 
ness. 

I  could  see  through  the  thick  ice  that  the 
brook  was  flowing  still,  and  if  it  could  wait  in 
patience  for  the  coming  of  spring  why  not  I  ? 
To-day  it  looked  through  icy  windows  and  was 
content,  while  I  was  free.  The  leaping  flames 
crackled  merrily  and  the  sand  beneath  them 
began  to  flow.  I  had  made  the  spot  a  little 
tropic  for  the  time,  and  how  quickly  word  was 
passed  and  my  neighbors  came  to  see  !  There 
was  the  hum  of  a  town's  activity  down  every 
twiggy  avenue,  and  the  airy  lines  of  travel,  long 
deserted,  were  alive  again,  as  the  snow-birds 
and  tree-sparrows  came  trooping  hither,  and  all 
because  a  weary  pedestrian  had  built  a  little 
fire  and  was  resting  himself.  It  is  well  that 
birds  do  not  carry  thermometers  or  study  the 
paths  of  storms,  and,  man-like,  anticipate  all 
possible  discomforts.  The  mercury  sank  to 


Frost  Foliage.  21 

four  degrees  in  the  night,  but  the  birds'  spirits 
did  not  sink  in  proportion.  Winter  is  outside 
of  their  feathers  and  there  it  is  welcome.  If  it 
steals  their  food,  the  birds  laugh  at  their  ill  luck 
and  steal  a  march  on  winter.  A  few  wing- 
beats  and  the  matter  is  mended.  Who  cares? 
is  the  theme  of  every  one  of  them,  and  man, 
muffled  in  furs  and  shivering  over  a  fire,  calls 
himself  the  lord  of  creation.  So  he  is,  but 
until  he  is  as  independent  as  the  birds  there  is 
one  spoke  lacking  to  perfect  his  wheel. 

My  little  camp-fire  was  a  new  world  to  me, 
and,  as  it  seemed,  a  new  world  to  the  friends 
that  flocked  about  me.  Here  came  the  two 
nuthatches  and  the  brown  creeper ;  the  Caro- 
lina wren  and  the  winter  wren  from  northward ; 
the  golden-crowned  kinglet  and  tree-sparrows  ; 
the  chickadee  and  his  crested  cousin,  and,  as  if 
to  overlook  them  and  warn  of  my  hostile  in- 
tentions, if  I  had  any,  came  two  chattering 
jays.  I  sat  still  for  a  while,  and  every  one  of 
these  birds  seemed  to  enjoy  a  smoke-bath.  The 
curling,  thread-like  cloud  no  sooner  reached  the 
lower  branches  of  the  trees  than  the  birds 
flitted  through  it,  and  then  chattered  in  great 


22  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

glee  as  they  came  to  rest  on  the  brittle  twigs 
of  the  shrubbery.  I  sat  still,  and  drinking  in 
the  warmth  made  no  motion  but  with  my  eyes. 
Not  a  bird  but  came  closer,  and  as  I  measured 
after,  many  were  within  three  feet  of  my  face. 
Only  the  jays  held  moderately  aloof,  and  prob- 
ably by  so  doing  showed  to  a  greater  advan- 
tage. After  all,  is  there  not  much  in  wildness 
that  is  to  be  commended  ?  If  birds  flew  in 
our  open  windows  and  perched  like  flies  on  our 
bald  heads  during  a  summer  nap,  then  our  in- 
terest might  flag.  It  is  possible  to  maintain  an 
interest  in  things  we  cannot  touch  and  to  lose 
interest  in  them  when  too  often  in  our  hands. 
The  jays,  by  reason  of  their  size  and  brilliant 
plumage,  made  fitting  background  to  the  win- 
some wee  birds  that  desired  to  fathom  the  mys- 
tery of  my  fire.  But  what  has  all  this  to  do 
with  frost  foliage?  Nothing,  perhaps,  to  you, 
even  after  my  explanation,  but  much  to  me. 
Not  a  bird  in  the  bush  or  on  a  tree  but  is  a 
winter  bird ;  a  bird  as  characteristic  of  this 
January  day  as  are  the  swallows  of  summer 
sunshine.  They  have  come,  as  it  were,  to  me 
to  replace  the  leaves.  They  revivify  the  land- 


Frost  Foliage.  23 

scape,  and,  coming  at  the  call  of  frost,  I  asso- 
ciate them  with  his  crystalline  lifeless  handi- 
work. Frost-work,  in  all  its  infinite  variety,  is 
a  fitting  accompaniment  to  feathers  in  their 
complexity.  We  have  since  the  beginning  of 
time  associated  birds  and  blossoms,  and  to 
many  it  may  seem  a  novelty  to  have  the  one 
without  the  other.  But  Nature  is  not  partial  ; 
the  summer  songsters  have  not  all  of  the 
world's  glories  to  themselves.  My  brave  win- 
ter wren  and  tits  and  nuthatches  brave  the  frost 
foliage,  and  when  they  sport  among  it  the  glory 
of  winter  sunshine  is  apparent. 

My  little  wayside  camp-fire  is  but  a  heap  of 
ashes  ;  the  smoke  that  arose  from  it  has  drifted 
miles.  The  birds  that  gathered,  one  by  one,  as 
I  tarried,  have  left  me  ;  and  now  I,  too,  pass  to 
other  points,  to  a  meadow  here,  a  field  there, 
and  through  the  dark  cedars  that  fringe  a  high- 
way, and  wherever  I  turn  there  is  no  repulsive 
nakedness, — the  trees,  the  shrubs,  the  very  skel- 
etons of  the  dead  grasses,  are  made  beautiful 
again,  clothed  in  frost  foliage. 


An  Ice-Bound  Brook. 

IT  is  a  genuine  comfort  to  know  the  nature  of 
our  footing ;  to  be  rid  of  doubt  when  we  walk. 
The  possible  near  presence  of  a  quicksand  per- 
turbs the  mind  until  we  are  dead  to  Nature's  at- 
tractions. Sometimes,  however,  such  a  doleful 
experience  is  repaid  by  the  ecstatic  reaction 
when  firm  earth  is  reached,  after  treading  some 
treacherous  path.  We  laugh  at  the  very  idea 
of  having  entertained  a  fear  and  grow  bolder  as 
the  distance  increases  between  danger  and  our- 
selves. 

Often,  throughout  the  long  summer  and 
dreamy  autumn-tide,  I  had  wandered  as  near  as 
prudence  permitted  to  the  wide  brook  that 
flowed  silently  and  swiftly  through  the  weedy 
marsh,  but  never  quite  reached  to  those  river 
sanctuaries  that  held,  in  fact  or  in  fancy,  the 
chief  glories  of  these  unreclaimed  tracts  of 
meadow.  But  kindly  frost  came  to  my  aid. 
24 


An  Ice-Bound  Brook.  25 

Through  the  long  watches  of  one  starry  night, 
when  not  a  twig  of  the  tall,  sentinel  trees 
trembled,  so  gentle  was  the  passing  breeze,  the 
current  was  stayed  in  its  haste,  and  before  the 
sun  rose  there  was  no  rippled  surface  of  flowing 
water,  but  in  its  place  a  path  of  crystal.  Firm 
ice,  blue-black  and  clear  as  glass,  from  bank  to 
bank,  but  not  down  to  the  very  bed  of  the 
shallow  stream  ;  a  covering  that  made  the  chan- 
nel accessible  and  possible  to  observe  beyond 
any  means  that  I  could  have  devised.  And 
so  I  have  been  spending  ideal  hours  in  an  ideal 
spot. 

Not  all  the  green  growths  that,  when  summer 
was  most  active,  almost  stopped  the  current  of 
the  brook  are  wilted  and  wasted  by  the  touch 
of  frost.  There  is  a  green  and  growing  mat  of 
ribbon-like  and  hair-like  plant  life  in  the  bed  of 
the  stream  that  forever  waves  and  trembles,  but 
not  wholly  because  the  water  is  in  constant  mo- 
tion. Look  long  and  steadily  through  the  clear 
ice,  and  at  times  you  will  be  rewarded  by  seeing 
sudden  movements  of  dark  objects,  a  sudden 
darting  here  and  there  of  living  creatures,  that, 
if  thought  of  at  all,  you  supposed  were  taking 


26  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

a  winter-long  nap  deep  down  in  the  mud. 
These  many  objects  are  not  disturbed  by  some 
unusual  occurrence  and  your  presence  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  Aquatic  life,  in  part,  hiber- 
nates, sleeping  as  soundly  as  any  jumping  mouse 
on  land,  but  it  does  not  take  any  fish  or  turtle 
so  long  to  wake  up,  and  some  of  these  creatures 
sleep  with  one  eye  open.  This  is  quite  evident 
when  a  musk-rat  goes  fumbling  down  the  ditch, 
poking  its  nose  into  everybody's  business,  if  one 
may  judge  from  its  actions.  Stupid  suckers, 
our  most  ungainly  fish,  except  when  young, 
hurry  in  their  awkward  way  from  the  matted 
grass  in  which  they  were  resting  ;  a  pike,  our 
most  graceful  fish,  will  dart  like  an  arrow  and  as 
suddenly  disappear ;  and  that  sleepy-looking, 
but  not  fool  of  a  fish,  the  mud  minnow,  will  be 
neither  sluggish  nor  precipitant,  but  duly  me- 
thodical, and  effectually  dodge  any  real  or  sus- 
pected danger.  The  musk-rat  means  no  harm. 
Its  journey  down  Water  street,  as  we  might 
call  it,  is  a  peaceful  errand ;  but  wild  life, 
whether  in  the  water  or  in  the  air  above  it,  is 
not  given  to  running  unnecessary  risks.  Per- 
haps a  musk-rat  might  feel  carnivorously  in- 


An  Ice-Bound  Brook.  27 

clined,  and  a  bite  by  his  jaws  wounds  no  less 
surely  and  severely  than  a  nip  from  an  otter  or 
a  mink.  Explain  it  all  as  we  may,  there  is  a 
commotion  under  the  ice  through  which  we 
look,  and  we  forget  the  stagnation  of  the  sur- 
rounding meadows  that  lie  all  uncomfortably 
cold  in  the  clear  but  unreviving  sunshine  of 
January. 

At  this  moment  I  hear  the  trill  of  song-spar- 
rows at  intervals,  but  here,  to  my  fancy,  is  some- 
thing even  better,  wild  life  seen  without  long 
waiting  between  the  acts.  Only  a  few  small 
fishes,  it  is  true,  but  where  in  any  museum  or 
library  shall  we  go  to  learn  that  which  we  would 
like  to  know  of  these  few  fish  ?  The  learned 
ichthyologist  is  wholly  concerned  with  the  crea- 
tures' bones  and  scales  ;  the  angler  passes  them 
by  contemptuously  ;  the  amateur  naturalist  fears 
to  draw  too  near  lest  he  wets  his  feet,  or  must 
come  only  on  some  sunny  summer  day.  It  is 
a  pity  it  is  so.  There  is  more  to  be  seen  in  a 
weedy,  ice-bound  brook  in  January  than  my 
neighbor  fancies.  The  little  pike,  sucker,  sun- 
fish,  and  many  a  so-called  minnow  is  now  neither 
dead  nor  sleeping,  but  ready  at  a  moment's  no- 


28  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


tice  to  play,  as  I  am  moved  to  call  it,  with  the 
fishes  nearest  by ;  or  the  larger  ones  to  indulge 
in  the  more  serious  sport  of  swallowing  the  lit- 
tle fellows  within  their  reach,  exhibiting  here  a 
perfect  counterpart  of  one  phase  of  human 
activities. 

To  find  fish  within  fish,  even  three  or  four, 
"telescoped,"  as  it  were,  big,  smaller,  little,  and 
wee  fish — all  this  is  no  uncommon  occurrence. 
But  to  go  into  particulars  makes  the  whole  sub- 
ject appear  ridiculous.  I  saw  lately  a  fish  which 
reminded  me  of  a  pocket  spy-glass,  short  and 
stout ;  but  when  fish  after  fish  was  revealed  and 
placed  in  a  row,  then  it  was  like  this  same  spy- 
glass drawn  out  until  every  section  was  exposed. 
In  this  case  it  was  a  matter  of  three  fishes, — a 
pike,  a  mud-minnow,  and  a  very  small  pike. 
Equally  ravenous  at  times  is  the  black  pirate 
perch.  Tales  of  horror  might  be  told  of  the 
ceaseless  warfare  that  goes  on,  summer  and 
winter,  even  in  such  little  brooks  as  this  in 
the  meadow.  A  few  days  of  unusual  warmth 
reaches  down  a  few  inches  into  the  mud  and 
turtles  will  stretch  themselves.  The  larger  pre- 
datory fishes  regain  their  appetites,  and  terror 


An  Ice-Bound  Brook. 


29 


reigns  in  the  camps  of  the  minnows.  The 
grasses  and  pendulous  growths  that  now  so 
peacefully  wave  with  the  gentle  current  may  at 
any  moment  be  tossed  tumultuously  aside,  and 
the  water  be  roiled  for  a  rod  or  more  of  its 
present  crystalline  course.  It  is  not  always  a 


pike  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief.  A 
mink  may  surprise  the  pike,  that  is  at  the  mo- 
ment premeditating  murder,  and  for  an  instant 
pandemonium  reigns. 

My  little  brook  is  but  a  mere  remnant  now 
of  the  pretentious  stream  of  other  days  ;  and, 


30  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

with  its  loss  of  volume,  there  has  been  un- 
happily a  loss  of  wild  life  which  formerly  found 
the  world  here  Nature  at  her  best.  Otters  are 
all  gone,  I  suppose.  The  last  pair,  it  may 
be,  were  those  killed  within  a  few  months. 
The  beaver  has  been  long  extinct,  but,  while 
no  trace  of  a  dam  remains,  the  bones  of  these 
creatures  are  common  in  the  ashes  of  Indian 
cooking  sites.  Even  the  lumpish,  lazy  musk- 
rats  have  a  host  of  enemies  forever  at  their 
heels.  Think  of  those  to  come  after  us,  re- 
duced to  the  contemplation  of  meadow  mice. 
I  am  almost  too  late,  but  the  savage  within  me 
pleasantly  thrills  my  breast  as  I  make  out  the 
frozen  tracks  of  a  raccoon,  now  firm  in  texture 
as  fossil  footprints.  It  is  useless  to  follow  them 
up,  but  there  is  some  satisfaction,  upon  their 
basis,  of  repeopling  the  brookside.  Even  now, 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  a  cluster  of  silvery  birches, 
I  can  see  not  only  the  coon,  but  its  more  for- 
midable cousin,  the  bear.  Not  strange,  this, 
for  I  saw  only  yesterday  a  bear's  tooth,  picked 
from  an  upland  field,  which  some  Indian  had 
worn  as  an  ornament.  Is  not  this  the  secret  of 
the  satisfaction  we  sometimes  have  in  wander- 


An  Ice-Bound  Brook.  31 

ing  about?  Not  so  much  what  a  thing  is  as 
what  it  suggests,  I  take  it,  as  the  secret  of  that 
content  that  eases  weary  limbs  when  we  have 
walked  for  miles.  To  wander  by  this  brook- 
side  now,  intent  only  on  its  ice,  its  mossy  banks, 
and  the  leafless  trees  that  skirt  its  winding 
course  ;  intent,  I  say,  only  on  these  as  they  are 
individually,  is  "to  feel  like  one  who  treads 
alone  some  banquet  hall  deserted."  The  plain 
truth  of  the  matter  is,  there  now  are  no  living 
creatures  to  be  seen  or  heard,  and  frozen 
ground,  thinly  carpeted  with  dead  grass,  does 
not  exhilarate  like  the  rank  growths  of  summer. 
It  is  too  cold,  too,  to  speculate,  and  why  at 
such  a  time  are  winter  birds  so  unreasonable  ? 
All  things  are  favorable,  from  my  point  of  view, 
yet  not  a  bird  will  show  itself,  and  the  song- 
sparrows  no  longer  sing,  even  fitfully.  The 
silence  of  a  winter  day  is  maddening,  and  were 
it  not  that  we  have  just  expectations  of  at  least 
one  chickadee,  the  rambler  had  better  stay  at 
home ;  but  I  hear  jays  now  in  the  hill-side 
beeches  and  quarrelling  crows  along  the  frozen 
river.  Such  sounds  bring  content.  A  lively 
activity  that  defies  the  cold  is  assuring,  and  the 


32  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

little  brook  is  at  once  a  braver  feature  of  the 
landscape.  I  have  often  wondered  why  winter 
landscapes  are  more  popular  on  canvas  than  in 
real  life.  Strange  misconceptions  of  the  world 
in  winter  are  everywhere  prevalent.  The  win- 
ter sunrise  has  a  more  brilliant  array  of  colors 
than  a  summer  sunset,  and  winter  sunsets  lose 
much  by  being  seen  through  a  window.  The 
clearer  air,  the  snowy  foreground,  the  inter- 
lacing of  leafless  branches,  through  which  we 
look,  all  add  their  mite  to  the  glory  of  the  close 
of  day.  And  when,  at  last,  as  you  turn  your 
steps  homeward,  you  hear  a  song-sparrow  trill 
lightly  as  it  is  perched  on  the  frozen  twig,  and 
perhaps  see  it  firmly  outlined  against  an  illumi- 
nated background,  as  I  did  to-day,  you  will  feel 
that  to  trace  the  meadow  brook,  though  icy- 
cold  the  air,  is  not  merely  to  brave  the  rigors 
of  winter,  but  to  be  one  with  earnest  life  that 
can  teach  us  many  a  useful  lesson,  if  so  be  we 
are  willing  to  be  taught. 


Winter  Bells. 

iHE  winter  bells  ring  merrily  to-day.  In  the 
glittering  sunshine  the  gathered  tree-sparrows 
chirped  and  twittered  their  childish  hymn  to 
Peace.  Bright  and  beautiful  the  day,  without 
a  moment  of  depressing  silence.  Lisping  chick- 
adees came  near  to  where  I  sat,  not  listening  to 
them,  as  perhaps  they  thought,  but  to  the  ring- 
ing, clear  and  sharp,  of  the  winter  bells.  They 
were  ringing  out  their  delight,  not  "  in  the  icy 
air  of  night,"  but  in  the  crystalline  atmosphere 
of  a  February  noon.  We  are  too  apt,  at  such 
a  time,  to  spend  our  energy  in  searching  out  the 
signs  of  Spring,  and  so  remain  unmindful  of  the 
day's  peculiar  merits.  Shrug  your  shoulders, 
if  you  will,  and  turn  contemptuously  away,  but 
February  has  something  to  be  said  in  its  favor. 
Here  I  am  in  a  remote,  weed-grown,  long 
neglected  meadow  ;  home  of  more  wildness  and 
strange  fruits  of  Nature's  fancy  than  any  other 
3  33 


34 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


spot  to  be  reached  in  a  day's  ramble  ;  alone, 
and  likely  to  be  so  unless  I  meet  with  some  old 
trapper  or,  less  probable,  wandering  freak  as 
aimless  as  myself.  But  I  have  not  come  in 
vain  ;  the  winter  bells  are  ringing.  They  ring 
to  call  the  sunbeams  to  this  pretty  spot,  ring 


for  the  birds  that  now  are  gathering  here,  ring, 
I  wish  I  dared  to  think  it,  for  me  too  to  come 
and  share  in  the  general  joy  of  this  February 
noon. 

Welcome  or  not,  none  order  me  away,  and  I 
am  urged  to  tarry  because  of  no  offensive  dem- 


Winter  Bells.  35 


onstration.  He  who  would  know  the  joy  of  an 
outing,  whether  in  midwinter  or  during  the 
long  and  languid  summer  days,  must  have 
evidence  such  as  mine  of  a  wild  bird's  confi- 
dence. Thoreau's  wood-chopper  liked  to  have 
the  chickadees  about  him.  Little  wonder  that 
he  did,  for  now  while  I  am  listening  to  the  tink- 
ling of  merry  winter  bells,  these  birds  come 
near ;  so  near  they  look  me  directly  in  the  face 
and  chirp,  in  a  quizzical  way,  You  here  ?  Noth- 
ing more  delightful  than  this  in  any  welcome 
among  people  in  town.  Yes,  I  am  here,  and 
the  bells  ring  on  as  sweetly  as  ever  ;  never  tiring 
of  their  own  sweet  music,  nor  can  I  ever,  I  feel, 
grow  weary  of  listening.  Winter  is  but  an  empty 
word  to-day  ;  the  cold  gray  clouds  suggest  no 
chilling  thoughts ;  little  it  matters  that  the 
branches  of  the  trees  are  bare  ; — the  winter  bells 
are  ringing ! 

I  hear  the  wrangling  crows,  so  like  mankind 
in  all  their  disagreeable  ways,  where  they  have 
gathered  along  and  on  the  river,  and  I  can  see 
them,  in  my  mind,  wandering  about  that  deso- 
late scene,  floating  on  the  huge  ice-rafts,  scram- 
bling for  stray  bits  brought  by  the  recent  flood, 


36  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

and  hovering  over  the  blue-black  waters,  as 
fancy  pictures  foul  spirits  in  a  gloomier  world, 
but  nothing  of  all  this  reaches  here.  The  trees, 
the  earth,  the  very  air  itself,  strain  out  all  harsh- 
ness from  the  crows'  ill-natured  cries,  and  only 
that  which  is  pleasing  is  heard  where  the  winter 
bells  are  ringing. 

I  hear  the  rapid  blows  upon  some  dead  tree 
on  the  hill-side,  and  I  know  that  the  woodpecker 
is  at  work,  or  is  it  merely  noisy  sport  to  him  ? 
The  sound  brings  out  to  me  in  bold  relief  the 
lonely  remnant  of  the  ancient  forest,  bleak  and 
bare  and  silent  now,  save  for  this  bold  bird  that 
wakes  the  echoes,  it  may  be,  to  keep  his  courage 
up.  Winter  means  everything  there  that  we 
would  shun  ;  the  very  mosses  crack  like  brittle 
glass,  and  no  creature  ventures  now  to  wander 
over  the  wood-path's  carpet  of  crisp  autumn 
leaves.  Not  a  sunbeam  turns  aside  to  cheer 
the  woods  ;  they  have  other  things  to  do,  and, 
choosing  gayety  to  sorrow,  linger  content  where 
winter  bells  are  ringing. 

I  hear  a  rustling  in  the  dead  grass  near  me. 
Soon  the  gaunt,  frail  skeletons  of  a  summer's 
growth  are  ruthlessly  turned  aside,  and  close  to 


Winter  Bells.  37 


where  I  sit  a  musk-rat  pauses  and  stares  at  me 
with  evident  fear,  yet  not  to  the  exclusion  of 
astonishment.  You  here  ?  he  seems  to  ask,  and 
seeing  that  I  make  no  movement,  a  trace  of 
confidence  is  his,  and  he  turns  towards  the  bells 
as  if  the  more  intently  to  listen  to  their  music. 
I  feel  that  I  must  laugh  aloud,  and  do  so,  and  in 
an  instant  my  furry  friend  is  gone.  Gone,  too, 
was  every  chickadee  and  the  song-sparrow  that 
had  sung  in  dulcet  tones,  perched  in  a  mossy 
nook  above  the  bells.  I  could  hear,  for  the 
time,  neither  crows  nor  the  woodpecker.  Our 
birds  are  steadily  learning  a  good  deal ;  have 
already  learned  to  their  sorrow  what  mankind 
usually  proves  to  be  to  them,  but  never  have 
they  rightfully  interpreted  laughter.  Crows 
laugh,  in  spite  of  what  the  bumptious  pro- 
fessionals may  say,  and  parrots  have  a  keen 
sense  of  humor ;  but  it  is  wisdom  on  the  part 
of  the  rambler  not  to  express  himself  in  such  a 
way  when  amused  by  what  he  sees.  Human 
laughter  would  be  to  us  a  harsh,  repelling  sound 
if  we  did  not  realize  its  significance,  and  we 
know  all  too  well  it  often  means  mischief  and 
not  merriment.  Like  a  fool,  I  laughed,  and  in 


38  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


an  instant  the  spot  where  I  lingered  was  well- 
nigh  robbed  of  all  its  charms  ;  would  quite  have 
been  had  not,  happily,  the  winter  bells  kept 
ringing. 

Only  very  slowly  is  confidence  restored  in  the 
breasts  of  wild  life.  It  seemed  a  long  time  be- 
fore I  could  hear  the  chirp  of  any  returning  bird, 
and  the  winter  bells  tolled  rather  than  rang  out 
merrily.  But  the  birds  did  come  again.  Chick- 
adees, tree-sparrows,  the  brown  creeper,  and  a 
nuthatch  came  and  chatted  pleasantly  among 
themselves  or  to  themselves ;  it  matters  not 
which.  Enough  that  I  heard  them  and  that 
they  had  forgotten  my  awkward  blunder  of 
laughing  aloud.  Very  different  in  their  ways, 
these  birds,  and  the  variety  added  interest  to 
the  outlook,  and  again  the  winter  bells  struck 
a  livelier  note  and  rang  out  so  cheerfully,  no 
one  worried  about  the  time  of  year.  Winter  all 
over  the  world,  for  aught  we  care,  but  nothing 
of  its  dulness  lingers  here  when  the  winter  bells 
are  ringing. 

To  know  what  the  out-door  world  fully  means, 
we  must  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  scenes,  must 
be  enthusiastic,  and  then  it  is  not  impossible  to 


Winter  Bells.  39 


divine  the  feelings  of  the  birds  that  enliven  such 
a  place  as  this.  You  may  come  here  and,  after 
one  swift  glance,  mutter  "weeds  and  water," 
and  go  away,  having  spoken  the  simple,  sober 
truth  ;  true  as  when  you  say  of  a  city,  "  bricks 
and  mortar."  Having  but  his  flesh  and  bones 
before  you,  can  you  say,  "  here  is  a  man"  ?  Lit- 
erally true  of  where  I  am  at  present,  weeds  and 
water,  but  if  forced  to  seat  yourself  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree  and  hold  a  weed  before  your  eyes ;  to 
count  its  joints  and  branches ;  to  note  each 
frost  crystal  that  clings  to  it ; — you  will  likewise 
be  forced  to  admit  that  a  weed  in  winter  is  not 
merely  decaying  vegetation.  Its  summer  fresh- 
ness may  be  gone,  but  its  winter  suggestiveness 
remains  until  summer  comes  again  and  appeals 
as  strongly  to  those  who  love  Nature  not  as  she 
is  at  times,  but  as  she  is  always,  and  can  fairly 
shout  for  joy  when  the  bright  sunshine  holds 
all  shadows  back  and  winter  bells  are  ringing. 

If  obstinate  to  the  point  of  seeing  no  beauty 
in  a  weed,  may  not  water  hold  you  a  moment  ? 
It  is  not  always  as  terrifying  as  the  ocean  in  a 
storm  or  lifeless  as  in  a  muddy  mill-pond.  Here 
is  something  akin  to  neither  extreme, — a  spark- 


40  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


ling  rivulet  that  has  worn  its  winding  way 
through  the  meadows  to  the  river,  where  it  adds 
its  mite  to  the  greater  stream  and  is  lost  in  the 
ocean  at  last.  We  need  not  trace  it  throughout 
so  long  a  journey.  Here  it  is  the  prattling  in- 
fant rather  than  a  staid  old  man,  an  artless  child 
rather  than  a  cunning  adult, — a  rivulet,  born  of 
the  spring  that  lives  in  some  underground  re- 
cess, and  he  who  loves  an  outing  cannot  see 
and  hear  it  unimpressed.  As  I  see  it  now,  this 
laughing  brook  looks  up  for  a  moment  at  the 
blazing  sun  and  then  darts  behind  the  ice-bound 
masses  of  old  leaves  that  have  lodged  by  its 
way ;  then,  turning  and  twisting  among  the  airy 
roots  of  an  old  elm,  swirls  about  the  domed 
house  of  a  musk-rat,  and  then  in  and  out  among 
the  hassocks  of  the  open  meadow.  It  is  silent 
at  one  point,  tuneful  at  another,  but  never  sober 
and  downcast.  Its  lively  spirit  moves  or  ought 
to  move  you.  Its  presence  alone  means  beauty 
and  joy,  and  means  even  more  now  and  here,  at 
this  passing  moment,  when  many  a  bird  is  sing- 
ing its  praises  and  the  winter  bells  are  ringing. 

The   sunny  day  is  waxing   old  apace.     An 
envious  shadow  is  creeping  hitherward,  and  al- 


Winter  Bells.  41 

ready  its  repressing  influence  is  felt.  The  bells 
are  ringing  in  a  more  deliberate  way.  One  by 
one  the  sparrows  fly  farther  and  farther  afield, 
seeking  new  regions  where  the  sun  still  brightly 
shines  ;  the  chickadees  have  wandered  to  the 
woods  again,  where  now  the  sunlight  falls  in- 
vitingly. The  change  here,  where  I  have  been 
these  hours,  is  felt  rather  than  seen,  and  my 
curiosity  is  piqued.  I  tarry  yet  longer,  until 
silence  reigns  supreme.  Not  a  bell  but  now  is 
stilled  and  hints  no  more  of  music  than  the 
solemn  birch-trees  that  tower  far  above  them. 

I  have  not  proved  as  fitful  as  the  birds  ;  I 
have  been  more  faithful  than  the  wandering 
sun  ;  but  now  the  cords  are  snapped  that  bound 
me  ;  the  spirit  of  restlessness  is  strong  again.  I 
too  hie  me  away  to  lovelier  scenes,  if  happily  I 
may  find  them  ;  but  what,  I  am  asked  on  turn- 
ing away,  of  these  winter  bells  ?  True,  I  had 
almost  forgotten.  The  icicles  had  ceased  to 
drip,  the  sparkling  water  no  longer  fell,  drop  by 
drop,  upon  the  ice  below.  These  tiny  spheres 
of  music  were  now  no  longer  free  ;  no  longer 
rang  these  charming  winter  bells. 


A  Corvine  Congress. 

ABOVE  the  roar  of  the  petulant  east  wind 
that  bent  the  tops  of  the  pines  about  the  house, 
whistled  through  the  big  door-yard  elm  and 
passed  over  the  meadows,  twisting  and  twirling 
twigs  and  dead  leaves  in  its  path, — above  all 
this  I  heard  the  clamor  of  many  crows  that  had 
congregated  in  the  white-oak  grove  near  the 
mouth  of  the  gully  through  which  hurries  an 
upland  brook  on  its  way  to  the  river.  I  heard 
these  crows  better  than  I  could  see  them,  so, 
armed  with  a  field-glass,  I  cautiously  approached 
their  meeting  site  by  a  circuitous  route,  and 
happily  escaped  discovery  by  any  one  of  the 
several  sentinels  that  were  most  judiciously 
posted  at  all  points  of  approach  that  might 
prove  dangerous.  The  grove  where  this  par- 
ticular session  of  congress  was  held  is  well 
adapted  for  the  purpose  on  such  a  day  as  this, 
being  sheltered  from  the  east  wind,  except 
42 


A  Corvine  Congress. 


43 


about  the  tops  of  the  tallest  trees ;  a  rural 
coliseum,  fit  for  all  avian  exhibitions,  and  never 
quite  forsaken,  the  round  year,  either  by  night 
or  day.  But  perhaps  I  had  better  refrain  from 
even  the  very  plainest,  least  varnished  account 
of  what  I  saw  and  heard.  The  cry  of  imagi- 


nation run  wild,  of  investing  birds  with  attri- 
butes not  belonging  to  creatures  lower  than 
men,  and  all  that  ultra-scientific  rubbish  of 
theorists, — all  this  is  so  vehemently  proclaimed 
when  a  courier  arrives  from  the  woods,  that 
one  may  well  question  if  a  personal  narrative 


44  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


of  out-door  incidents  is  worth  the  while  to 
print.  It  is  true,  an  ever  increasing  interest  in 
a  particular  species  of  bird  may  make  us  a  bit 
careless  as  to  painfully  extreme  accuracy,  our 
enthusiasm  making  every  act  and  utterance  of 
rather  more  significance  than  the  facts  warrant, 
but  this,  however  much  it  is  to  be  deplored, 
is  less  undesirable  than  the  cold-blooded  an- 
nouncement of  the  anatomist  that  a  crow  flies 
and  screams  "caw"  at  all  times  and  is  as  black 
as  the  ace  of  spades.  This  is  true,  but  is  it 
quite  all  of  corvine  ornithology?  No  one 
doubts  the  cunning  of  a  fox,  and  a  crow  is  a 
fox  in  feathers.  It  is  the  most  intelligent  of 
all  our  birds,  and  I  do  not  suppose  any  one 
doubts  that  there  is  a  great  difference  among 
our  birds  as  to  their  mental  calibre.  Perhaps 
it  is  doubted.  The  world  has  groped  in  error 
so  long  that  now  it  loves  the  false  even  to  the 
point  of  idolatry,  and  truth  is  offered  no  kindly 
welcome  when  it  timidly  appears.  I  am  not 
an  omnivorous  reader  of  books,  and  so  speak 
only  for  myself.  I  have  gathered  from  first 
hands — that  is,  from  the  birds  themselves — that 
some  are  quick-witted,  others  foolish,  and  occa- 


A  Corvine  Congress.  .45 


sionally  some  are  downright  fools.  You  can 
hoodwink  a  wood-thrush,  but  it  is  a  smart  man 
that  deceives  a  cat-bird,  and  never  the  second 
time.  English  sparrows  know  a  trap  however 
natural  its  appearance,  and  know  my  gun  as 
something  very  different  from  a  walking-stick. 
The  peewee  is  confiding,  but  its  big,  yawping 
country  cousin  down  the  lane  among  the  apple- 
trees,  the  great  crest,  is  always  suspicious.  The 
chippy  that  nested  by  the  parlor  window  took 
crumbs  from  my  fingers ;  but  the  humming- 
bird dashed  at  my  eyes  when  I  drew  too  near 
its  nest  I  never  saw  a  chickadee  that  was 
not  distinctly  friendly  ;  but  the  crested  tit  says 
there  is  elbow-room  enough  for  both  it  and 
myself,  and  demands  so  much  neutral  territory 
between  us.  The  lines  can  be  more  closely 
drawn.  There  is  marked  difference  among  in- 
dividuals of  the  same  species.  You  do  not  get 
at  this  from  a  chance  acquaintance,  meeting 
birds  to-day  and  never  afterwards.  Circum- 
stances must  bring  you  together  and  keep  you 
associated  for  a  season,  and  then,  after  such 
an  experience,  the  whole  world  will  appear 
to  you  in  a  different  light.  To  annoy  birds 


46  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

will    not    occur    to    you    and    bird-murder    be 
unthinkable. 

But  the  crows  :  what  of  them  ?  Luckily,  I 
gained  an  advantageous  point  of  view,  after  a 
deal  of  painful  crawling  through  the  weeds  ; 
and  briers'  thorns  are  sharper  in  January  than 
at  other  times,  or  human  flesh  more  sensitive. 
Adjusting  the  field-glass,  I  saw — not  fancied  I 
saw — that  one  crow,  from  a  commanding  posi- 
tion, was  haranguing  the  assembled  multitude. 
What  I  heard  was  one  crow's  voice  that  varied 
or  rang  the  changes  on  the  basic  syllable  kaw 
about  as  follows  :  kd — ee',  kd  kaw  !  kaw' kd ; 
and  then  there  was  a  babel  of  kaw — ka-d-d, 
that  clearly  expressed  assent,  an  apparent 
"that's  so"  that  was  ludicrously  like  the  chatter 
of  congregated  humanity  when  an  orator  stoops 
to  their  comprehension.  After  a  momentary 
pause,  the  orator,  as  we  will  call  the  speaking 
crow,  resumed  his  speech,  and  the  variations  of 
kaw  kd  were  repeated,  but  with  many  sounds 
like  2-S  and  a  trill,  as  ar-r-r-r.  The  latter 
were  always,  I  thought,  uttered  in  a  more 
rapid  manner  than  what  I  have  called  the 
basic  syllable,  kaw,  and  certainly  were  accom- 


A  Corvine  Congress.  47 


panied  with  more  gestures.  Accurate  descrip- 
tion is  impossible,  words  and  actions  were  so 
rapid,  but  my  impression  would  doubtless  not 
have  varied  had  the  crow  been  more  deliberate. 
The  most  striking  feature  of  it  all,  however, 
was  the  dissent  of  the  gathering  on  two  occa- 
sions, that  was  as  plainly  marked  as  the  pre- 
vious assent  had  been.  The  utterance  was 
wholly  different  and  the  accompanying  gestures 
likewise  varied.  The  twisting  and  turning  of 
the  head  and  neck  was  most  pronounced, — a 
turning  away,  as  it  were,  from  the  suggestion  ; 
and  there  was  also  a  decided  wing  movement 
I  did  not  notice  before,  corresponding  in  some 
measure  to  the  hand  and  arm  movement  among 
ourselves  when  excited  to  the  point  of  being 
demonstrative. 

I  am  not  sure  at  what  time  of  day  the  con- 
gress opened  its  session,  but  it  lasted  for  just 
twelve  minutes  after  I  took  up  my  position  in 
the  spectators'  gallery,  if  the  tangle  of  briers 
can  be  so  called.  Then  occurred  a  break  in 
the  proceedings,  for  one  of  the  out-posted  sen- 
tinels was  heard  to  call  out,  not  unlike  a  turkey, 
but  the  cry  ending  in  a  prolonged  er-r-r-r. 


48  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


This  caused  a  sudden  closing  of  the  orator's 
speech,  or  argument,  or  whatever  it  really  was, 
and  the  assembled  crows  rose  into  the  air, 
some  thirty  feet  or  more  above  the  trees.  I 
noticed,  by  mere  chance,  that  the  sentinels  re- 
mained perched  in  the  trees.  After  the  lapse 
of  probably  three  or  four  minutes,  the  circling 
and  chattering  crows  resumed  their  places,  and 
what  was  to  me  most  curious  of  all,  in  prac- 
tically the  same  way  they  were  previously  dis- 
tributed, and  one  individual,  I  shall  always 
think  the  same,  took  up  his  position,  in  a  way 
suggestive  of  being  Speaker  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  brief  repetition  of  the  proceedings 
as  described,  and  then  a  shout  or  extra-loud  call 
uttered  by  every  bird.  The  sentinels  left  their 
posts,  and  joining  their  brethren  of  the  con- 
gress, the  whole  gathering  flew  away  in  the 
same  westerly  direction. 

Now,  if  we  are  merely  to  witness  what  birds 
do  and  refrain  from  contemplating  their  motives 
in  so  doing,  the  great  charm  of  out-door  orni- 
thology is  gone.  It  is  not  satisfying  to  say  there 
was  a  lot  of  crows  in  the  oaks  of  the  gully 
this  morning  and  they  made  a  great  noise.  It 


A  Corvine  Congress.  49 


is  not  for  an  instant  to  be  held  that  crows  caw 
merely  to  hear  themselves  break  the  silence. 
There  is  nothing  in  all  they  utter  akin  to  music. 
It  is  not  intended  as  such  more  than  the  squeal- 
ing of  a  pig.  The  associated  acts  and  general 
deportment  of  the  crows  clearly  show  they 
have  other  purposes  than  soothing  their  excited 
nerves  with  song.  But  how  do  we  know  this  ? 
It  is  difficult  to  satisfactorily  reply,  inasmuch  as 
it  has  been  claimed,  whether  with  good  reason 
or  not,  that  it  is  not  justifiable  to  judge  the 
non-human  by  the  human  standard.  This  may 
be  true,  but  I  know  of  no  other  standard. 
When  a  lower  animal  does  the  same  thing  that 
we  would  do  under  like  circumstances,  it  seems 
thoroughly  logical  to  assume  that  the  intention 
is  the  same  in  either  case.  When  we  see  our 
legislatures  in  session  or  recall  the  pleasant  days 
of  youthful  debating  societies,  the  purpose  of 
the  gathering  together  of  a  number  of  indi- 
viduals is  recognized  at  once,  and  would  be  if 
we  were  deaf  and  could  hear  not  a  word  that 
was  spoken.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  a  dog,  enter- 
ing a  church  during  service,  would  recognize 
that  the  officiating  clergyman  was  speaking  and 
4 


50  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


the  audience  listening.  So  in  the  case  of  the 
crows  to-day  ;  one  harangued  and  the  others 
listened  and  occasionally  commented  upon  what 
was  said  ;  possibly  applauded.  These  birds 
have  not  copied  all  this  from  man,  but  it  has 
come  about  in  their  case,  as  in  ours,  gradually. 
They  have  learned  the  value  of  consultation,  and 
that  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  proposition  must  be 
duly  considered.  Certainly  this  was  done  to- 
day by  the  crows  assembled  in  my  hill-side  oaks, 
and  to  reach  such  a  point  of  complex  mentality 
means  advanced  intelligence.  Those  wonderful 
instincts  about  which,  when  children,  we  heard 
so  much  played  no  part  in  what  I  have  called  a 
corvine  congress.  Even  the  posting  of  senti- 
nels is  not  instinctive,  but  the  result  of  fore- 
thought based  upon  experience.  Truly,  crows 
are  cunning,  but  not  merely  from  necessitated 
exercise  of  caution,  as  is  possibly  true  of  a  fox, 
but  cunning  to  the  degree  of  planning  what 
under  given  circumstances  it  is  best  to  do  ;  and 
how,  with  a  fair  measure  of  safety,  they  can  pit 
their  intelligence  against  that  of  man.  Some 
mammals  do  this  and  a  few  birds,  but  I  know 
of  none  in  this  country  that  go  so  far  in  the 


A  Corvine  Congress. 


direction  of  consideration  of  cause  and  effect 
as  does  the  crow. 

It  is  useless  perhaps  to  hope  ever  to  be  able 
to  translate  the  crows'  language  and  so  learn 
what  they  are  discussing,  whether  but  two  or 
three  are  gathered  together  or  a  great  flock  is 
addressed  by  some  chosen  leader,  but  the  initial 
step  having  long  ago  been  taken,  that  com- 
munication of  ideas  among  the  lower  animals 
does  take  place,  it  is  no  over-reaching  of  rea- 
sonableness to  recognize  that  the  variations  of 
kaw  and  ka  are  full  of  meaning  to  the  birds  to 
which  they  are  addressed. 

A  careful  study  of  corvine  courtship  would 
be  profitable  to  those  who  care  for  the  subject 
of  animal  intelligence.  Their  mentality  shows 
then,  I  doubt  not,  as  prominently  as  when  the 
nest  is  deserted  and  life  is  a  struggle  for  food 
more  than  aught  else.  The  actions  of  wooers 
have  too  frequently  been  commented  upon  as 
simply  so  many  silly  antics  and  not  having  any 
deeper  meaning,  but  we  are  not  yet  sufficiently 
versed  in  ornithological  lore  to  deliver  snap 
judgments.  It  is  a  common  practice,  but  sin 
is  not  less  sinful  because  of  its  prevalence. 


52  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

Among  smaller  birds  than  crows,  the  difficulties 
lie  in  the  fact  that  we  cannot  detect  all  the  ut- 
terances ;  and  it  would  not  be  surprising,  if  it 
could  be  proved,  that  birds  intentionally  whisper 
"  little  nothings"  to  those  nearest  to  them.  That 
male  birds  sing  to  attract  the  attention  of  females 
is  undeniable,  but  there  are  other  expressions  of 
their  feelings  and  responses  by  the  females  that 
are  usually  overlooked.  Only  at  rarest  intervals 
can  we  witness  a  courtship  throughout  and  see 
for  ourselves  that  birds  are  not  mere  machines, 
soulless  and  unsentimental,  moved  by  impulses 
mysterious  to  themselves.  I  have  seen  a  male 
rose-breasted  grosbeak  bring  food  to  its  mate 
and  then,  when  the  latter  had  taken  it,  rapidly 
move  its  beak  in  a  manner  clearly  showing  it 
was  uttering  some  sound,  which  was  quite  in- 
audible to  me.  I  have  seen  the  flicker  stop  his 
work  of  cutting  out  a  new  nesting-place,  and 
sitting  close  by  the  side  of  his  mate,  the  two 
chatted,  may  I  say?  about  their  mutual  interests, 
and  then  he  would  resume  his  work  of  deepen- 
ing the  cavity  in  the  tree.  Great,  at  times,  is 
the  chatter  when  the  great  crested  flycatcher 
enters  the  nest  and  tells  his  mate  to  go  out  and 


A  Corvine  Congress.  53 

take  an  airing  and  he  will  keep  house  while  she 
is  gone.  But  significant  as  is  all  that  we  see 
among  mated  birds,  and  we  see  but  a  mere 
fraction  of  what  we  should  to  pose  as  interpre- 
ters, it  is  little  in  comparison  to  that  which  is 
constantly  transpiring  among  the  crows.  They 
do  not  live  in  fancied  security  as  is  true  of  other 
birds  ;  they  accept  nothing  through  hopefulness, 
and  have  no  faith  in  appearances.  Everything 
with  which  they  have  to  deal  must  be  tested  as 
best  they  can,  and  so  they  live  a  life  of  constant 
fear,  such  as  mankind  finds  intolerable.  A 
happy  crow,  from  our  point  of  view,  is  an  im- 
possible creature  ;  but  nevertheless,  when  crows 
do  have  a  moderate  sense  of  security,  and  know 
that  their  sentinels  are  alert  and  trustworthy, 
they  venture  to  make  merry  among  themselves 
and  are  playfully  inclined.  See  them,  for  in- 
stance, gathered  on  cakes  of  floating  ice  when 
the  river  breaks  up  ;  see  them  pitch  and  turn  in 
mid-air  with  almost  swallow-like  agility ;  see 
them  hobnobbing  with  the  gulls  and  hear  them 
laugh  !  Perhaps  this  is  a  step  too  far,  but  it  is 
a  wide-spread  fancy,  one  I  first  heard  of  from 
an  old  fisherman,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to 


54  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


rid  myself  of  the  idea  that  he  was  right.  It 
seems  so  rational  an  interpretation  of  their  wild 
cries  as  they  are  playing  about  the  river,  for 
surely  not  all  their  time  is  now  spent  in  search- 
ing for  food.  The  true  inwardness  of  all  corvine 
ways  is  not  yet  within  our  reach  ;  but  when  they 
are  assembled  as  I  saw  them  to-day  and  discus- 
sion is  conducted  decently  and  in  order,  then  it 
is  that  the  intelligence  of  these  birds  stands  out 
quite  unmistakably. 


After  the  Storm. 

STEADILY,  for  many  long  hours,  the  rain 
poured  down,  coming  in  long  unbroken  streams 
from  the  low-lying  clouds.  The  sleepy  brook 
that  had  murmured  itself  almost  to  sleep,  as  it 
crossed  the  lane,  and  languidly  crept  through 
the  dark  ravine  that  shuts  out  the  sunlit  world 
for  many  a  rod,  at  last  was  roused  to  unwonted 
energy,  and  rushed  forward  to  find  the  meadows 
of  which  it  had  been  dreaming  meadows  no 
longer,  but  a  lovely  lake.  Hour  after  hour, 
still  it  rained,  and  never  night  more  dreary  and 
more  dark.  The  ominous  roar  of  the  wind 
among  the  door-yard  trees  made  me  tremble 
for  the  safety  of  the  three  beeches  near  my 
house,  nor  was  my  mind  at  ease  until  the  gray- 
streaked  dawn  announced  not  only  the  break 
of  day  but  the  passing  of  the  storm.  The  up- 
land fields  were  all  intact ;  the  hill-side  trees 
had  suffered  no  injury,  but  there  were  no 

55 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


meadows  !     I  found  myself  living  on  the  banks 
of  a  new-born  lake. 

I  cannot  explain  it,  but  the  simple  fact  is  all- 
sufficient,  the  spirit  of  exploration  and  of  ad- 
venture takes  strong  hold  upon  me,  when,  after 
the  storm,  the  activity  of  resuming  more  nor- 


mal  conditions  is  at  its  height.  The  puffy 
winds,  the  swiftly  passing  cloud,  the  scream  of 
a  hawk,  the  cawing  of  crows,  the  harsh  cry  of 
sea-gulls,  and  the  nervous  whistling  of  larks  and 
red-birds,  even  the  excited  twitter  of  passing 
sparrows,  all  tend  to  rouse  again  my  youthful 


After  the  Storm.  57 

energy,  and,  reckless  of  lessened  suppleness  and 
strength,  I  hurry  away,  scarce  noting  where, — 
only  away,  away  !  Now,  if  ever,  the  blessed 
wildness  that  is  in  us  comes  to  the  surface,  and 
he  who  has  most  of  it  is  the  happiest  of  men. 
I  do  not  speak  hastily,  I  think,  when  saying 
this.  We  are  backward  in  all  that  makes  man 
what  he  was  meant  to  be,  when  the  grip  of 
artificiality  has  throttled  all  desire  to  breathe  the 
air  beyond  a  village  street.  We  hear  much  of 
higher  aims  and  of  the  superlatively  superior 
one  of  another  existence,  but  must  it  be  fol- 
lowed by  ignoring  and  making  little  of  that 
upon  which  we  now  dwell?  I  decline  to  make 
the  sacrifice.  The  sunshine  of  to-day,  after 
the  storm,  is  bright  enough  ;  anything  brighter 
would  be  blinding  and  painful,  not  enjoyable. 
It  is  January,  but  I  am  afloat,  not  frozen  in,  as 
if  in  the  arctic  regions,  and  how  grand  the 
glittering  sunlight  on  this  nameless  lake  !  No 
novelty,  to  be  sure,  but  a  repeated  experience 
of  these  past  forty  years  and  more,  but  history 
has  never  repeated  itself;  and  as  of  old,  I  am 
all  eagerness  to  see  and  hear.  Leaves  are  too 
tender  for  rude  January  days,  yet  the  sapling  sas- 


58  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

safras  is  as  green  as  a  June  meadow,  and  how 
stately  the  rich  foliage  of  the  rhododendrons  ! 
but  here  the  slender  silvery  birches  are  bare  in- 
tricacies of  delicate  twigs,  a  pretty  lace-work  as 
seen  against  the  sky,  and  even  prettier  now  that 
a  host  of  waxwings  has  settled  among  them. 
They  lisp  in  a  languid  way  and  never  cease  to 
dress  rebellious  feathers,  but  they  do  not  rouse 
our  interest  beyond  their  prettiness.  They  lack 
the  animation  of  a  wren  and  music  of  a  thrush, 
and  one  wonders  what  their  place  in  Nature 
really  is.  This  is  not  an  unusual  time  for  them, 
but  their  coming  and  going  is  very  uncertain. 
Not  always,  however,  for  I  have  known  a  flock 
of  half  a  hundred  or  more  to  linger  about  the 
same  cedars  for  weeks  together. 

Of  greater  interest  than  any  strictly  land  bird 
are  the  gulls  that  the  storm  has  driven  up  the 
river,  veritable  storm-tossed  creatures  that  hap- 
pily do  not  complain,  but  enter  into  the  new 
conditions  with  abundant  zest  They  give  a 
seaside  twang  to  the  air  and  water,  and  I  fancy 
the  wind  in  the  trees  the  roar  of  the  surf. 
Other  sea-birds  occasionally  come,  and  a  good 
many  too,  at  times,  were  here,  long  ago,  judging 


After  the  Storm.  59 

from  their  bones  in  the  Indian  kitchen-refuse 
heaps  and  old  cooking  sites.  Hawks  add  wild- 
ness  to  the  wintry  sky,  and  a  black  falcon  on 
the  bare  branch  of  some  outstanding  tree  is  of 
course  the  shining  mark  towards  which  perse- 
cuting crows  impetuously  dart. 

I  need  not  row.  The  wind  carries  the  boat 
in  that  aimless  way  that  is  so  desirable  when 
bound  for  no  harbor.  There  are  no  breakers 
ahead.  I  am  due  nowhere,  answerable  to  no 
one.  Free  as  the  wind  is  free ;  aimless  ;  in  love, 
for  the  moment,  with  every  new  bird  that 
comes ;  devoted  follower  of  the  wandering 
musk-rat ;  ardent  admirer  of  the  drowned-out 
mice  ;  everything  and  all  things  unto  each  and 
every  creature ;  torn  from  my  moorings,  like 
my  neighbor's  fence-rails ;  free  and  happy. 
The  storm,  while  it  lasted,  produced  no  pain, 
but  still  there  was  a  feeling  of  restraint.  I 
could  have  stood  out  in  it  and  there  was  no 
one  to  stay  me,  yet  I  was  restrained.  The 
gloomy  night  suggested  nothing  to  make  me 
love  life  or  the  world  ;  but  the  day,  the  sunlit 
hours  after  the  storm,  mean  everything,  and  to 
float  on  these  joyous  waters  that  meet  the  pass- 


60  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


ing  breezes  half-way  and  cap  their  waves  with 
foam, — this  is  life,  the  moments  snatched  from 
year-long  drudgery,  that  are  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. 

Where  in  the  long  summer  days  I  was  wont 
to  ramble  on  foot,  seeking  the  cool  shadows  or 
hidden  spring  of  cool  and  crystal-clear  waters, 
now  I  go  in  a  different  fashion,  and  not  a 
landmark  deigns  to  greet  me.  These  old  trees 
have  withdrawn  their  friendliness,  and  I  am  a 
stranger  among  them  ;  but  I  will  not  be  re- 
buffed. There  is  no  wind  murmuring  in  their 
branches,  but  the  breaking  of  waves  against 
their  sturdy  trunks  is  no  less  musical.  For 
a  while  it  is  more  dreamland  than  reality,  but  I 
am  called  at  last  to  facts  that  crowd  all  fancies 
to  the  wall.  The  flood  has  unsettled  the  pur- 
poses of  the  meadow  wild  life,  and  by  chance  I 
see  that  mice,  a  squirrel,  and  some  ill-defined 
creature  have  taken  refuge  here.  They  do  not 
make  any  effort  to  escape  or  elude  detection, 
but  sit  in  a  philosophical  way,  waiting  for  a 
change  in  the  surroundings ;  but  what  inter- 
ested me  most  was  to  see  that  when  required 
creatures  that  live  in  one  place  can  adapt  them- 


After  the  Storm.  61 

selves  readily  to  another.  I  never  saw  a  meadow 
mouse  climb  a  tree,  but  here  are  three  that 
must  have  climbed  the  perpendicular  trunk  of 
a  maple  for  at  least  five  feet,  the  distance 
between  the  water's  surface  and  the  lowest 
branch.  Above  them  crouches  some  larger 
mammal,  but  what  is  it?  It  hides  itself  effect- 
ually, and  I  can  form  no  idea  from  what  little  I 
see.  Possibly  a  young  raccoon  ;  less  probably 
a  "wild"  domestic  cat;  it  is  too  dark  for  an 
opossum,  and  skunks  cannot  climb,  it  is  said. 
It  is  not  strange  to  find  the  freshets  upsetting 
wild  life's  plans  ;  even  the  moles  in  the  upland 
fields  have  been  burrowing  in  every  direction, 
and  uplifted  the  sod  near  the  house  into  long 
disfiguring  ridges. 

All  day  long  afloat  and  never  tiring,  though 
no  adventure  awaits  me.  As  noon  approaches 
the  sun  shines  with  unusual  warmth,  and  my 
neighbor's  bees  come  from  the  hive.  There 
are  insects  in  the  air  on  the  sunny  sides  of  the 
oaks  and  hickories.  How  very  quick  to  re- 
spond to  a  little  sunshine  is  nearly  every  form 
of  life  !  and  how  very  apt  to  suffer  because  of 
this  credulity  !  The  winter  sun,  with  us,  can  lie 


62  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


in  a  most  unblushing  manner.  To-morrow, 
the  mercury  may  sink  to  zero, — a  drop  of 
fifty-five  degrees.  I  have  known  still  greater 
changes.  The  only  uniformity  I  have  ever 
found  is  at  Nine  Spring  Corner,  where  the 
water  is  always  warm,  plant-life  luxuriant,  and 
pretty  salamanders  always  to  be  found. 

If  there  was  no  adventure  awaiting  me,  there 
was  something  equally  good,  a  splendid  sun- 
set and  gorgeous  coloring  of  the  rippled  waters 
that  overspread  the  pastures.  We  think  ot 
winter  as  brown  or  white,  and  talk  of  the  cold 
gray  skies,  but  never  my  lady's  rose-bower 
more  brilliant  with  bloom  than  this  lake  of  the 
day  with  sunset's  rainbow  hues.  Not  one  rain- 
bow resting  here,  but  thousands  ;  not  fiery  red 
alone,  but  every  softer  shade,  and  the  blossoms 
of  a  summer  scattered  far  and  near.  No 
thought  now  of  January  or  the  nipping  cold  of 
mid-winter  nights  ;  no  hint  of  icy  waters  black 
and  chill,  of  arctic  desolation,  and  a  longing 
for  the  fireside  light  and  warmth.  Now  was 
winter  in  a  playful  mood  and  wreathed  in  rare 
smiles,  as  sweet  as  they  are  rare.  Nor  was  I 
alone  to  enjoy  it.  A  song-sparrow  breaks  the 


After  the  Storm.  63 

silence,  and  his  infectious  glee  moves  the  crested 
tit  to  whistle  loudly,  as  if  to  call  up  every  bird 
about  him,  and  a  wren  on  the  hill-side  shouts 
back  to  it,  "  Glorious  /" 

Such  winter  days  are  all  too  short.  I  tarried 
until  not  a  trace  of  color  rested  upon  the 
waters  ;  but  scarcely  less  beautiful  were  the  re- 
flected stars  and  crescent  moon  that  gilded  the 
black  waters  of  the  short-lived  lake. 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side. 

BUT  little  that  we  meet  with  bears  a  very  close 
inspection.  A  gem  without  a  flaw  does  not 
flash  from  every  ringer ;  but  he  is  unwise  who 
spends  his  days  hunting  for  the  world's  defects. 
The  face  of  the  long,  low  bluff^  that  every  one 
calls  a  hill-side,  is  not  perfect  The  moss  is  in 
patches,  the  trees  crooked,  the  bare  earth  shows 
in  spots,  and  is  gullied  and  wrinkled  where  we 
would  have  it  smooth.  The  springs  flow  as 
they  choose  and  make  here  a  swamp  and  leave 
it  a  desert  there.  Tell  the  whole  truth,  and  the 
face  of  the  long,  low  bluff  is  a  veritable  eye- 
sore. Is  it?  Even  during  these  early  April 
mornings  I  find  it  a  very  gate  of  Paradise,  if 
not  that  fabled  garden  of  delight.  Others  can 
find  fault  if  they  will,  and  much  joy  come  to 
them.  But  while  yet  the  day  was  very  young 
the  sun  peeped  over  the  roof  of  my  neighbor's 
barn,  and  in  response  to  the  assuring  warmth 
64 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side.  65 

here  and  there  chirped  the  cheerful  chickadee. 
This  is  one  of  the  day's  minor  incidents  we 
should  all  see  and  hear.  It  conveys  a  useful 
hint  to  those  pessimistically  disposed.  It  brings 
out  the  full  meaning  of  the  day.  It  means 
wholesome  appreciation.  He  who  faces  the 
coming  day  whistling  is  not  likely  to  look  upon 
sunset  weeping.  Later,  my  little  bird  uttered 
the  phcebe  note,  as  Thoreau  calls  it,  but  I  hold 
it  says,  Hear  me.  Whether  or  not,  I  listened. 
Wind  cold  as  charity  roared  in  the  tree-tops  ; 
but  why  mind  it  ?  Hear  me  !  was  the  sweet 
sunrise  salutation  of  the  chickadee,  and  I  half 
believed  that  some  herald  of  approaching  spring 
had  charmed  the  tangled  green  brier  and  added 
brightness  to  the  mosses.  Hear  me  !  and,  heed- 
ing the  command,  I  strolled  along  the  hill-side. 
A  squirrel  barked,  but  must  we  take  the  first 
greeting  as  indicative  of  a  disappointing  day 
because  it  is  a  surly  one  ?  It  matters  little  if  a 
cross-grained  squirrel  is  rude.  There  is  gen- 
erally some  discordant  note  whatever  the  con- 
ditions or  wherever  we  happen  to  be.  Jays  are 
pretty  sure  to  screech  when  the  matins  of  the 
white-throated  sparrows  are  floating  along  this 
5 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


peaceful  hill-side,  a  hymn  to  stir  the  better  feel- 
ings of  the  most  indifferent.  Hearing  blue-jays 
at  such  a  time,  it  becomes  quite  evident  that  a 
bird's  song  was  not  intended  for  man's  enjoy- 
ment, as  has  been  seriously  asserted.  Never- 
theless, we  can  get  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction 
out  of  it,  sharing  the  music  with  the  birds  with- 
out robbing  them.  But  I  did  not  come  to  the 
hill-side  to  philosophize  over  bird-song,  but  to 
listen,  and  let  it  be  understood  that  there  is  an 
art  of  listening.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a 
meaningless  sound.  It  is  a  contradiction  to 
speak  of  what  we  hear  as  having  no  significance, 
but  the  meaning  of  any  sound  may  or  may 
not  be  of  importance  to  us.  The  footstep  of  a 
detective  may  not  disturb  our  day-dreams,  but 
bring  a  vision  of  the  gallows  to  the  pursued 
criminal.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  nearest  to 
meaningless  sounds  are  those  made  by  man. 
Compare  for  a  moment  his  clumsy  tread  with 
the  scarcely  detected  footsteps  of  a  wood-mouse. 
The  man  is  absolutely  nothing  to  us  ;  would 
not  be  missed,  if  never  heard  of;  but  the  day 
was  never  long  enough  to  watch  a  dainty  white- 
footed  wood-mouse  pick  its  way  through  the 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side.  67 

dead  branches  scattered  by  the  storms  of  the 
past  winter.  If  it  squeaks  when  startled,  why  ? 
Follow  the  actions  now  of  the  mouse  and  trace 
the  cause  of  the  sound  to  the  shadow  of  the 
hawk  you  see  sailing  over  you.  To  simply  hear 
a  sound  is  not  all.  To  listen,  to  realize  the  full 
intent  and  purpose  of  every  variation  in  the 
sound,  to  note  the  accompanying  gesture  with 
each  characteristic  utterance,  whenever  possible  ; 
in  short,  to  appreciate  the  effort  on  an  animal's 
or  bird's  part  to  interpret  its  own  feelings,  this 
is  to  listen  intelligently,  and  in  so  doing  to  be 
taught  a  useful  lesson  in  ornithology.  There 
is  profit,  then,  as  well  as  pleasure  in  being 
abroad  on  a  bright  April  morning  like  this, 
and  noting,  whether  we  stroll  along  the  foot- 
path way  or  stand  by  some  one  of  the  old 
oaks,  whatsoever  is  to  be  heard  on  the  hill-side. 
But  the  skies  are  not  always  bright.  We  have 
heard  much  of  tearful  April,  and  of  the  showers 
that  are  so  common  during  the  month  ;  but  the 
effect  of  these  varying  conditions  upon  bird-life 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  closely  observed. 
Cloudiness  is  not  necessarily  a  drawback  to  a 
day.  There  must  be  low  temperature,  chilly 


68  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

dampness,  and  an  east  wind  to  make  the  early 
spring  migrants  mope.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  the  wood-thrush  at  no  later  period 
sang  as  sweetly  as  during  a  dark,  cloudy  April 
day,  when  the  leafless  woods  were  filled  with 
that  strange  shadowless  light,  such  as  we  see  in 
a  Claude  Lorraine  glass.  It  is  a  light  to  stir 
the  soul  of  man,  if  he  has  any,  and  could  not 
fail  to  affect  our  incomparable  poet,  the  wood- 
thrush. 

What  is  to  be  heard  on  a  bright  April  morn- 
ing? There  is  a  deal  of  scepticism  on  this 
subject,  and  the  common  reply  is,  I  fancy, 
"  Nothing  much,"  or,  perhaps,  "Crows."  Well, 
I  pity  the  person  who  can  find  no  pleasure  in 
the  varied  calls  and  alarm-notes  of  these  wily 
birds.  It  suggests  a  lack  of  retrospective  power, 
and  much  is  lost  when  the  restless  crows  of 
April  do  not  recall  these  same  birds  in  the  past 
winter,  when  all  their  ingenuity  was  taxed  to 
gain  a  living  ;  and  what  a  pretty  sight,  when  the 
river  opened,  to  see  them  riding  on  huge  cakes 
of  ice  or  deftly  darting  between  them  for  some 
coveted  morsel  with  all  the  grace  of  the  gulls 
with  which  they  fraternized.  But,  then,  there 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side.  69 

are  people  who  never  see  crows  except  those  in 
their  own  cornfields.  What,  then,  is  to  be 
heard  in  April  ?  Just  a  round  dozen  of  good 
musicians  and  a  host  of  pleasing  dilettanti  that 
fill  up  the  unoccupied  moments,  like  gossipy 
friends  between  the  acts.  The  dozen  are  all 
good,  to  my  mind,  but  necessarily  of  varying 
merit,  and  more  than  one,  as  a  soloist,  excellent ; 
while  others,  in  this  light,  are  not,  perhaps,  to 
be  commended.  But  let  the  rambler  judge  for 
himself.  To-day  there  were,  in  varying  num- 
bers, robins,  Carolina  wrens,  crested  tits,  blue- 
jays,  song-sparrows,  red-winged  blackbirds,  car- 
dinal red-birds,  vesper  sparrows,  meadow-larks, 
chickadee,  flicker,  and  purple  grakles,  and  the 
united  voices  of  at  least  three  or  four,  and  often 
twice  as  many,  could  be  heard  at  once.  An 
orchestral  performance  that  sometimes  was 
bewildering  and  occasionally  mildly  irritating, 
but  never  exasperating.  It  was  the  birds' 
way  of  saluting  a  morning  in  April,  and  they 
asked  neither  for  permission  nor  approval.  Is  it 
strange  that,  to-day,  the  violets  opened  their 
eyes  and  looked  towards  the  skies,  and  the  pale, 
trembling  spring  beauty  was  flushed  with  ex- 


jo  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


cess  of  joy  ?  Man,  in  his  inordinate  conceit, 
would  doubtless  have  differently  arranged  mat- 
ters, and  ordered  more  solos  by  the  cardinal 
and  song-sparrow,  or  duets  by  the  crested  tit 
and  vesper  birds,  but  man  should  remember 
that  on  all  such  occasions  he  is  an  uninvited 
guest,  and  ought  at  least  to  have  sufficiently 
good  manners  not  to  criticise — only  he  hasn't ! 
Lord  of  creation,  no  doubt,  but  in  many  a  way 
he  makes  a  pretty  mess  of  it. 

April  showers  !  There  is  nothing  depressing 
about  them,  and  if  I  ventured  to  criticise  our 
spring-tide  and  its  birds,  it  would  be  that  our 
April  shower  might  be  a  little  repressing  so  far 
as  the  robins  are  concerned.  They  certainly 
are  too  noisy.  A  typical  shower  now  fairly 
electrifies  the  north-bound  warblers,  and  with- 
out exaggeration  they  can  be  likened  to  honey- 
bees just  before  they  swarm.  I  have  tried  more 
than  once  to  count  the  warblers  in  my  door- 
yard  elm,  but  gave  up  in  despair.  Possibly  the 
most  noticeably  excited  bird,  after  an  April 
shower,  is  the  peewee.  This  is  in  part  because, 
later  in  the  season,  the  bird  is  methodical  and 
emotionless,  if  not  positively  melancholy.  Not 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side.  71 

so  when  the  nest  is  again  in  order.  Their 
new  year  has  commenced,  and  after  perhaps  two 
or  three  days  of  dry  and  dusty  weather,  let 
these  be  followed  by  an  afternoon  shower,  and 
this  in  turn  by  a  flood  of  golden  sunshine 
through  the  dripping  trees,  and  it  is  a  peewee's 
holiday,  or,  more  strictly  speaking,  holy  hour. 
Then  the  two  short  notes  are  lengthened  into 
song,  and  so  rapidly  repeated  that  stirring  music 
fills  the  freshened  air,  and  we  know  that  spring 
is  here.  The  few  new  leaves  of  the  hardiest 
shrubs  make  green  all  creation  at  such  a  time. 
If  far  away  from  the  peewee's  home,  you  have 
something  closely  akin  to  this  sudden  accession 
of  excitability  and  emphasized  bird-song,  after 
an  April  shower,  in  the  song  and  movements 
of  the  dainty  little  field-sparrow.  This  delight- 
ful bird  feels  strongly  the  influence  of  the  pass- 
ing shower,  and  sings  so  much  more  vigorously 
than  usual  that  I  believe  its  song  can  be  heard 
at  twice  as  great  a  distance.  Those  of  us  who 
rush  in-doors  at  the  appearance  of  rain  lose  a 
great  deal,  and  more,  again,  in  not  taking  a 
hint  from  the  birds  and  rushing  out  of  doors  as 
soon  as  the  last  drop  has  fallen.  Be  it  birds  or 


72  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

business,  not  one  man  in  a  million  is  too  soon 
on  the  spot 

The  birds  of  the  hill-side  this  morning  re- 
called a  curious  specimen  of  humanity  I  met 
with  the  other  day.  I  asked  him  why  he  never 
came  to  these  old  strolling  grounds  of  his  ;  that 
they  had  not  changed  for  the  worse  in  any  way. 
His  reply  was,  "  Oh,  there  is  nothing  new  to  be 
found  there."  His  idea  of  an  outing  was  to 
collect  something  new  to  the  neighborhood, 
plant  or  animal.  All  his  out-door  world  con- 
densed in  that  one  word,  "specimen."  To 
think,  as  he  does,  that  there  are  no  violets  ex- 
cept the  one  in  his  herbarium  ;  no  birds,  except 
the  distorted  skins  that  disfigure  his  study. 
Horrible  !  After  all,  it  is  the  life  that  attracts 
us,  and  not  the  body  that  merely  displays  it, 
and  we  have  not  the  whole  truth  until  both 
body  and  soul  are  set  before  us.  An  ornitho- 
logical museum  and  a  graveyard  have  a  vast 
deal  in  common,  and  I  prefer  the  lively  sparrow 
on  the  village  green  to  its  defunct  cousin  be- 
hind glass  doors,  as  I  do  my  friends  of  to-day 
to  the  crumbling  remains  of  worthy  ancestors. 

But  a  truce  to  controversy,  and  what  more 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side.  73 

of  the  hill-side?  An  abundance  of  bird-song 
largely  compensates  for  lack  of  leaves,  and  the 
trees  did  not  appear  bare.  The  birds  sang  so 
much  of  summer  coming  that  I  fancied  sum- 
mer was  here  ;  but,  in  fact,  the  trees  were  not 
bare.  The  maples  are  in  full  bloom  ;  so,  too, 
the  elms.  Spicewood  fairly  glitters  with  its 
wealth  of  golden  flowers,  and  tiny  tips  of  green 
show  on  many  a  sheltered  shrub.  Even  the 
oaks  have  lost  their  wintry  nakedness.  The 
leaf-buds  have  swollen,  and,  as  the  tree-top 
shows  against  the  sky,  there  is  a  promise  of 
vigorous  growth  that  our  imagination  helps 
upon  its  way.  Listening  to  the  birds,  we  enter 
into  their  hopeful,  prophetic  spirit,  and,  forget- 
ting the  past,  we  magnify  the  present,  and, 
looking  down  the  long  stretch  of  forest  on  the 
hill-side,  gaze,  as  we  fancy,  far  into  the  future. 
What  a  museum  would  that  be  which  could 
give  the  dweller  in  town  the  songs  of  our 
birds  by  merely  opening  a  glass  case  !  The  in- 
ventor's cunning  has  come  near,  but  not  quite 
accomplished  this.  A  song  may  be  bottled  up, 
but  the  sweetness  is  lacking  when  you  draw 
the  cork,  or  is  it  that  the  songs  and  the  sur- 


74  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

roundings  cannot  be  dissociated  ? — a  kinship 
between  our  lungs  and  ears,  and  so  a  breathing 
of  musical  odors  as  well  as  hearing  of  sweet 
sounds.  We  cannot  be  passive,  or  mere  re- 
ceptacles of  impressions  that  have  not  for  us 
their  real  significance.  Such  cannot  be  posi- 
tive even  that  they  heard  a  bird  sing.  Think 
of  being  only  vaguely  impressed  with  the  idea 
that  you  heard  some  voices  when  out  of  doors  ! 
Nevertheless,  this  is  as  far  as  many  of  my 
neighbors  go. 

It  profits  nothing  to  draw  an  invidious  dis- 
tinction, as  it  really  is,  when  many  birds  are 
singing.  Too  much  cannot  be  said  of  any  bird 
when  that  one  is  in  its  place,  but  our  extrava- 
gance as  to  the  thrushes  too  often  leads  to  in- 
justice as  to  some  unpretentious  sparrow.  Not 
one  of  the  many  birds  upon  the  hill-side  shall 
be  first  to  me.  I  am  rich  when  the  least  of 
them  sings  in  my  hearing. 

As  the  day  draws  to  a  close,  all  reluctantly 
I  turn  my  face  homeward,  and  with  unwilling 
steps  retrace  the  day's  ramble.  The  foot-path 
way  is  not  bathed  in  the  same  cheerful  light, 
and  the  songs  that  still  are  heard  are  less  full 


Heard  on  the  Hill-Side.  75 

of  cheer ;  or,  is  the  change  only  in  ourselves  ? 
But  merry  or  melancholy  any  strain,  it  is  with 
a  feeling  of  time  well  spent  that  I  take  back 
with  me,  not  specimens,  burdens  upon  both 
arm  and  conscience,  but  the  soul  of  every 
sweet  song  heard  while  I  lingered  on  the  hill- 
side. 


Blunders  in   Bird- Nesting. 

THIS  is  an  ill-chosen  title,  perhaps,  yet  it  is 
purposely  selected  because  it  affords  an  oppor- 
tunity to  express  an  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
man's  attitude  towards  bird-life.  Bird-nesting 
in  the  sense  of  destroying  or  disturbing  a  bird's 
nest  is  a  crime,  and  the  blunder  is  on  the  part 
of  the  criminal,  who  degrades  himself.  Sci- 
ence, under  whose  name  so  much  cruelty  takes 
shelter,  is  no  adequate  shield  to  the  wretch  who 
deliberately  destroys  a  nest.  The  maturing  of 
a  brood  concerns  the  community,  but  the  color 
of  the  eggs  and  structure  of  the  nest  are  not 
matters  of  transcendent  importance,  and  can 
be  determined  without  interfering  with  the 
rights  of  the  birds. 

But  the  blunders   I   have  in   mind,  if  such 
they  are,   are   those   of  the  birds  themselves ; 
errors  of  judgment,    as  seen   from  our  stand- 
point.    As  an  instance,  there  are  at  this  time 
76 


Blunders  in  Bird-Nesting.  77 

three  nests  of  song-sparrows  on  the  ground  in 
my  lane,  which  runs  in  a  nearly  north-and- 
south  direction.  These  nests  are  on  the  west 
side,  and  are  tilted  so  as  to  get  the  full  benefit 
of  the  sun  in  the  forenoon.  Each  nest  is  deftly 
concealed  by  the  dead  grass  of  the  past  sum- 
mer being  drawn  over  it,  and  to  two  of  the 
three  are  short  roofed  runways,  better  built 
than  many  I  have  seen  made  by  a  meadow- 
lark.  So  far,  the  birds  have  been  wise,  but  in 
all  three  cases  the  nests  have  been  placed  dan- 
gerously near  the  wagon-track, — in  one  case 
within  fifteen  inches  of  a  deep  rut,  and  the 
others  much  less  than  twice  that  distance  away. 
The  result  is,  the  bird  is  forced,  or  so  it  sup- 
poses, to  leave  the  nest  every  time  a  carriage 
passes,  and  this  is  quite  frequently  during  the 
day.  Likewise,  the  sitting  bird  hurries  away 
on  the  approach  of  every  foot-passenger.  These 
annoyances  and  real  sources  of  danger  were 
doubtless  not  considered  when  the  sites  were 
chosen,  and  perhaps  were  unheeded  during 
nest-construction,  but  the  facts  must  have 
dawned  upon  the  builders  before  the  eggs 
were  laid.  Why,  then,  they  took  the  apparent 


78  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

risk  is  incomprehensible  to  us.  From  a  man's 
point  of  view,  these  birds  blundered.  In  their 
six  little  heads  was  not  enough  wit  to  foresee  in 
time  inevitable  consequences.  For  many  days 
I  have  been  trying  to  see  what  were  the  com- 
pensating advantages  of  these  three  similar  nest- 
sites,  and  I  have  not  been  able  to  solve  the 
problem.  However,  the  three  broods  were 
reared  successfully,  and  perhaps  this  will  be 
held  as  an  evidence  that  it  was  I  and  not  the 
birds  that  blundered. 

But  birds  not  only  do  blunder  occasionally, 
but  acknowledge  the  fact.  I  have  been  daily 
going  the  rounds  of  many  nests  in  all  sorts  of 
places,  and  spent  many  an  hour  patiently  watch- 
ing the  building  of  the  nest.  The  Baltimore 
oriole  has  more  than  once  commenced  a  nest 
on  a  still  day,  but  found  that  the  wind  pre- 
ceding a  summer  shower  caused  too  much 
motion,  and  the  unfinished  structure  was  aban- 
doned. One  pair  of  robins  fixed  upon  a  cozy 
hollow  in  an  apple-tree,  but,  having  no  roof 
overhead,  they  found  their  nest  in  a  pool  of 
water  after  a  night's  rain.  Nevertheless,  all 
else  being  favorable,  birds  are  willing  to  risk 


Blunders  in  Bird-Nesting.  79 

possible  discovery  rather  than  relinquish  a  posi- 
tion that  pleases  them.  An  uncle  of  mine  told 
me  that  he  took  an  old  crook-neck  gourd  in 
which  wrens  had  a  nest,  gradually  moved  it 
nearer  and  nearer  the  kitchen  door,  and  finally 
hung  it  to  one  of  the  bare  rafters  overhead. 
The  wrens  protested,  of  course,  and  yet  were 
not  willing  to  be  beaten  if  they  could  help  it 
They  raised  the  first  brood  of  that  summer  in 
the  kitchen,  but  found  a  new  nesting-place  for 
their  second  brood.  The  following  summer,  so 
Uncle  Timothy  said,  the  wrens  came  back  and 
inspected  the  gourd  in  the  kitchen,  but  con- 
cluded to  take  no  risks.  As  my  uncle  was  a 
geologist,  of  course  the  story  may  be  slightly 
colored,  but  I  have  confirmation  of  the  essen- 
tial facts. 

But,  as  birds  have  other  enemies  than  man,  it 
is  surprising  how  much  they  leave  to  chance, 
running  risks  which,  from  our  point  of  view, 
might  easily  be  avoided.  For  several  days  I 
watched  a  pair  of  robins  that  chose  as  a  nest- 
ing-site the  swaying  twigs  of  a  tall  pine-tree. 
Day  after  day  I  watched  and  wondered,  and 
with  every  puff  of  wind  expected  to  see  the 


80  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

nest  come  tumbling  to  the  ground.  But  all 
went  well  in  those  airy  regions,  and  never  were 
two  robins  happier,  if  we  can  judge  by  their 
actions.  When  the  nest  was  finished  and  prob- 
ably an  egg  or  two  laid,  the  end  came.  I  hap- 
pened to  be  out  of  doors  in  the  night,  and, 
while  looking  at  the  tree-tops  darkly  limned 
against  the  moonlit  sky,  saw  an  owl  floating 
in  mid-air  like  a  black  cloud.  Suddenly  it 
swooped  down.  The  robins  screamed,  and 
then  there  was  death-like  silence.  One  of  the 
birds  was  seized,  the  other  was  frightened  from 
its  home,  and  the  deserted  nest  remains  a 
monument  to  their  folly.  What  advantage 
there  could  be  in  a  nest  in  such  a  position  is 
not  demonstrable.  True,  we  do  not  see  the 
world  with  a  bird's  eyes,  but  we  are  supposed 
to  have  a  keener  mental  if  not  physical  vision, 
and  we  must  think  that  the  birds  blundered. 
They  of  course  had  a  purpose  in  building 
where  they  did,  but  lacked  foresight  to  the 
extent  of  not  realizing  possible  disadvantages. 
Do  such  birds,  escaping  death,  profit  by  experi- 
ence, or  repeat  their  folly?  Probably,  with 
them,  thought-transference  does  not  go  far 


Blunders  in  Bird-Nesting.  81 

enough  to  permit  the  giving  of  advice,  and 
improvement  can  lie  only  in  the  one  direction 
of  experience.  I  think  there  is  satisfactory 
evidence  of  this,  but  it  is  of  such  a  character  as 
not  to  be  convincing  when  put  upon  the  printed 
page.  A  good  deal  of  our  ornithological  knowl- 
edge must  be  the  result  of  personal  observa- 
tion, and,  while  this  is  ever  food  for  thought 
and  a  delightful  subject  of  contemplation  when 
we  happen  to  be  alone,  its  bloom  is  rubbed  off, 
its  significance  is  lessened,  its  value  is  de- 
preciated, when  subjected  to  the  criticism  of 
others  who  have  not  seen  as  you  have  seen,  or, 
as  so  often  happens,  have  not  seen  at  all. 


A  Morning  in  May. 

I  WAS  laughed  at  not  long  ago  for  suggesting 
that  the  other  months  resign  in  favor  of  May. 
It  is  not,  after  all,  so  very  surprising  that  such  a 
thought  should  come,  when  we  consider  how 
full  to  overflowing  is  this  perfect  month.  That 
June  day  of  which  Lowell  has  so  sweetly  sung 
did  not  excel  a  recent  morning,  when  the 
humming-birds  brought  to  a  close  the  long 
procession  of  north-bound  warblers,  themselves 
last  and  least.  The  sun  rose  very  slowly  over 
my  neighbor's  woods,  as  if  it,  too,  would  like  to 
tarry  here  on  the  blooming  meadows  and  play 
bo-peep  with  the  hill-side  shadows.  The  wake- 
ful robin  was  astir  at  dawn,  and  far  off  in  some 
leafy  glade  a  tuneful  thrush  piped  in  its  own 
enchanting  way,  and  soon,  roused  by  these,  one 
by  one,  the  summer's  host  of  songsters  joined 
in  the  chorus.  It  is  not  worth  the  while  to 
claim  which  is  the  earliest  bird  to  sing,  nor 
82 


A  Morning  in  May.  83 

which  first  to  settle  down  to  the  prosy  facts  of 
life  after  the  sun  has  risen.  A  bird's  day  and 
ours  are  not  the  same,  and  he  knows  the  birds 
best  who  keeps  the  same  hours.  Such  things 
vary  indefinitely,  too,  and  a  sleepy-head  occa- 
sionally is  the  earliest  astir,  just  as  no  two  morn- 
ings are  alike,  even  if  wind  and  weather  have 
remained  unchanged  since  yesterday.  At  least, 
there  will  be  a  variation  in  the  clouds,  and  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud  may  postpone  the  song  of  a 
bird.  Clouds  and  the  shadow  of  a  single  cloud 
have  been  quite  too  much  neglected.  I  have 
seen  busy  nest-building  birds  suddenly  quit 
work  and  sit  as  moodily  as  if  in  the  depths 
of  despair  because  the  sunlight  was  shut  off, 
and  resume  their  labors  with  most  suggestive 
promptness  when  the  sun  shone  again.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  explain  this.  I  have  no 
intention  of  attempting  it ;  but  after  seeing  it, 
time  and  again,  for  years,  there  is  an  almost 
unavoidable  disposition  on  the  rambler's  part  to 
spend  an  hour  or  two  in  speculation  as  to  the 
status  of  the  bird's  emotions.  Birds'  nests  we 
know,  and  birds  we  think  we  know,  but  not  too 
much  attention  has  been  paid  to  birds  when 


84  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


building.  Then,  if  ever,  can  we  witness  the 
varied  manifestations  of  all  their  mental  quali- 
ties. Love,  fear,  anger,  jealousy,  obstinacy,  and 
ingenuity  are  exhibited  in  quick  succession,  and 
every  emotion  so  unmistakably  that  there  is 
next  to  no  danger  of  misinterpretation.  I  went 
the  rounds  almost  daily  of  forty-two  birds' 
nests  during  the  month,  and  the  many  quaint 
incidents  I  witnessed  would  fill  a  volume :  pa- 
thetic beyond  my  power  of  description  where 
an  accident  happened  to  the  mate  of  a  red- 
start ;  almost  complete  paralyzation  through 
fear  when  I  attempted  to  photograph  a  nest 
full  of  young ;  rage  that  overreached  itself  on 
the  part  of  a  Carolina  wren  I  teased  ;  strange 
antics  ascribable  only  to  jealousy  when  I  placed 
a  mirror  near  a  nest,  and  a  catbird  saw  in  its 
reflected  self  a  rival ;  persistence  when  one 
bird  determined  to  retain  material  for  a  nest 
which  the  other  bird  deemed  unsuitable  ;  and 
in  how  many  ways  did  birds  strive  to  overcome 
little  difficulties  I  placed  in  their  way  !  Happily, 
all  went  well  at  last,  and  these  birds  and  their 
babies  came  to  know  me.  So  I  think,  but 
others  doubt  it.  At  all  events,  I  could  do  what 


A  Morning  in  May.  85 

others  could  not,  and  I  have  my  own  opinion 
of  the  matter.  Whether  birds  of  the  out-door 
world  come  to  distinguish  individuals  or  not, 
they  are  very  much  tamer  in  some  localities 
than  others.  This  no  one  will  deny.  My 
friends  were  surprised,  at  the  opening  of  the 
nesting  season,  to  see  a  wren's  nest  on  the  porch 
where  people  were  continually  passing;  and 
these  wrens  seemed  to  know  the  difference 
between  the  family  and  strangers ;  but  later  in 
the  season  a  pair  of  wrens  took  possession  of 
a  little  watering-pot  hung  against  the  side  of  the 
house,  within  arm's  length  of  the  pump.  A 
nest  was  built  and  a  brood  reared  within  six 
feet  of  a  farm-house  kitchen  door.  I  had  heard 
strange  stories  of  very  tame  house-wrens  before, 
and  I  am  better  prepared  to  believe  them  now. 
Do  we  not  too  often  consider  as  unusual  some 
incident  to  which  our  attention  is  particularly 
called  ?  We  relate  it  as  an  anecdote  of  animal 
life,  and  think  it  a  remarkable  illustration  of 
some  mental  or  instinctive  quality  of  the  bird  or 
animal,  when  in  fact  it  is  an  every-day  occur- 
rence. What  we  see  done  is  not  likely  to  be  at 
all  unusual.  Under  peculiar  circumstances  any 


86  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

creature  may  exercise  to  a  greater  degree  some 
one  of  its  powers  to  meet  the  demands  of  the 
occasion,  but  there  is  really  nothing  remarkable 
in  this.  It  would  be  strange  if  they  did  not, 
and  we  would  have  cause  for  wonderment  if 
wild  life  succumbed  without  an  effort  to  avoid 
any  danger  suddenly  sprung  upon  it.  When  we 
read  anecdotes  of  animal  life,  we  read  usually 
the  every-day  doings  of  the  creatures  mentioned. 
When  we  see  these  incidents  paraded  in  news- 
papers as  remarkable,  we  read  the  evidence  of 
the  author's  ignorance.  It  is  the  manner  of 
the  bird  or  mammal  when  nothing  particular  is 
going  on  that  gives  us  a  true  insight  as  to  what 
that  mammal  or  bird  really  is,  just  as  we  can 
realize  what  our  friends  are  only  when  they 
are  seen  unmoved  by  anger  or  undisturbed  by 
petty  vexations.  In  birds  in  particular  it  is 
the  toss  of  the  head,  the  flirt  of  the  tail,  the 
cheerful  or  impatient  chirp,  and  a  dozen  or  more 
little  details  that  are  really  instructive  and  come 
to  the  rambler  to  mean  more  than  all  the  un- 
usual incidents,  so  called,  that  will  be  witnessed 
in  a  lifetime. 

The  free  agency  of  birds  is  as  much  a  myth 


A  Morning  in  May.  87 


as  is  that  of  man.  Generalizations  as  to  morn- 
ings in  May,  as  of  many  another  matter  of 
Nature,  are  of  no  particular  value,  but  of  one 
recent  morning  I  can  speak  with  confidence,  for 
haply  I  was  astir  at  dawn.  The  robin  started 
a  little  trickling  stream  of  song  down  the  hill- 
side, and  before  it  had  crossed  the  meadows 
and  reached  the  river  this  same  trickling  stream 
was  swollen  to  a  flood  of  melody.  There  was 
not  a  silent  second  for  three  full  hours  ;  not  a 
moment  unburdened  with  sweet  sound.  Had 
the  rambler  been  in  pursuit  of  some  single 
song ;  had  he  wished  to  hear  the  rose-breasted 
grosbeak,  or  one  of  the  vireos,  or  desired  to 
single  out  the  utterance  of  some  migratory  war- 
bler, his  efforts  would  have  proved  in  vain.  This 
bewildering  confusion  of  infinitely  varied  sounds 
cannot  in  its  entirety  be  considered,  in  a  scien- 
tific sense,  as  music.  An  orchestra  would  be 
mobbed  that  attempted  to  reproduce  it ;  so, 
why  is  it  that  the  birds'  salutation  to  the  rising 
sun  does  not  offend  the  ear?  It  is  true,  I  have 
heard  of  a  musician  who  swore  at  a  nightingale 
and  exclaimed  "What  discord  !"  but  the  world 
at  large  has  thousands  of  less  critical  ears,  and 


88  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


such  are  pleased,  not  pestered,  when  a  wild  bird 
sings.  Everything,  I  take  it,  depends  upon  the 
surroundings.  In  an  aviary,  for  instance,  the 
same  mingled  bird-songs  would  not  be  attractive. 
The  medley  in  a  bird-store,  canaries  and  parrots, 
is  never  musical,  but  who  unaffectedly  objects  to 
the  mingled  voices  of  a  dozen  birds  in  their  own 
home  ?  Even  the  crow's  cawing  blends  with  the 
thrush's  song,  and  we  have  not  mere  discord, — 
the  rambler  has  not,  at  least, — but  mingled  wild- 
ness  and  melody ;  the  rugged  and  the  tender ; 
activity  and  contemplation.  The  truth  is,  if  we 
find  such  harsh  sounds  as  that  of  the  crow  and 
qua-bird  and  the  fretful  w hough  of  the  green 
heron  a  source  of  annoyance,  then  we  lack  that 
trace  of  the  savage  in  our  nature  that  is  like  the 
pinch  of  salt  that  makes  the  dish  of  meat  pala- 
table. There  is  something  that  amuses  me  and 
really  calls  for  pity  when  I  see  a  man  or 
woman  ecstatic  over  the  warbling  of  a  rose- 
breast  and  given  to  scolding  if  a  blue-jay 
screams.  I  have  known  my  visitors  to  shrug 
their  shoulders  when,  in  the  course  of  a  ramble, 
we  stopped  at  the  flood-gates,  and  instead  of 
songs  of  thrushes,  heard  the  rattle  of  the  king- 


A  Morning  in  May.  89 

fishers.  For  longer  than  I  can  remember  these 
birds  have  made  the  creek  at  the  ruins  of  the 
flood-gates  their  favorite  summer  home,  and  the 
"  rattle"  that  disturbs  the  visitor  is  music  to  me, 
because  of  old  associations.  Remember,  you 
have  gone  to  Nature,  not  coaxed  her  to  come 
to  you,  and  where  she  is  there  expect  to  find 
her  just  as  she  is.  There  will  be  no  hurried 
opening  of  a  stuffy  parlor  as  you  approach  ;  no 
thrusting  of  this  into  the  background  and  push- 
ing that  to  the  fore,  nor  frantic  effort  to  change 
a  dress  in  time.  There  will  be  no  flushed  face, 
due  to  haste,  ill  concealed  by  powder,  but  an 
honest  countenance,  and  no  shadow  of  annoy- 
ance at  your  appearance.  Nature  is  ever  ready 
to  meet  the  right  kind  of  visitors  ;  is  not  taciturn 
or  petulant ;  but  by  not  so  much  as  a  hair's- 
breadth  will  she  vary  from  a  predetermined 
course.  The  birds  are  hers,  not  ours,  and  if  she 
bids  them  all  sing  at  the  same  moment,  remem- 
ber, she  is  directing  her  own  orchestra  for  her 
own  entertainment  and  never  even  so  much  as 
remembers  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  man  on 
earth.  Like  a  conscientious  student,  she  has 
due  regard  for  the  law  of  priority,  and  being 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


herself  older  than  the  birds,  and  birds  ages  older 
than  the  dawn  of  humanity,  she  rightly  con- 
siders that  man,  Nature's  most  recent  after- 
thought, should  be  a  respectful  listener  only  and 
not  assume  to  dictate.  Even  to  offer  advice  is 
impudent,  and  to  presume  to  criticise  ill-man- 
nered. The  rejoicing  of  the  birds  of  a  morning 
in  May  is  no  novelty  to  the  time-worn  hill-side 
along  which  I  wander.  The  sweetness  thereof 
has  drifted  like  a  cloud  in  the  summer  sky  from 
the  forest  to  the  river,  from  the  river  to  the 
sea, — a  sweetness  that  has  soothed  many  a 
troubled  breast  in  the  days  of  our  forefathers 
and  calmed  my  own  fretfulness  to-day. 

But  a  morning  in  May  is  not  merely  a  matter 
of  bird-song.  There  enters  into  it  bird  activity 
as  well,  and  to  the  practised  eye  this  activity,  in 
its  various  phases,  is  as  characteristic  of  birds  as 
is  their  singing.  Birds  of  different  species  are 
alike  in  some  ways,  but  are  also,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  unlike  as  we  are.  What  among  man- 
kind is  called  a  family  trait  or  peculiarity  has  its 
analogue  in  the  differences  among  species.  It  is 
possible  to  recognize  a  bird  by  the  wing  move- 
ment or  flirt  of  the  tail,  its  method  of  flight,  or 


A  Morning  in  May.  91 


general  manner  when  at  rest  or  walking,  but 
when  it  becomes  a  matter  of  positive  identifi- 
cation such  minor  details  are  not  to  be  trusted  ; 
the  risk  is  too  great.  Imitations  too  often 
occur,  as  in  bird-song.  Birds  that  are  not  tree 
creepers  can  creep  over  trees,  and  birds  without 
webbed  feet  can  swim  like  a  duck  when  neces- 
sity requires  it. 

It  is  apparent,  from  all  this,  that  to  be  abroad 
at  sunrise  is  no  blind  man's  holiday,  the  world 
open  only  to  our  ears.  There  is  ever  much  to 
see  as  well  as  to  hear  ;  but  we  stand,  as  it  were, 
on  dangerous  ground  if  moved  to  report  all  we 
witness.  Some  one,  neither  able  to  see  nor  hear, 
might,  from  the  controversies  arising,  doubt  if 
either  faculty  was  developed  among  his  fellows. 

The  enjoyment  of  watching  birds  comes  from 
our  attempts  to  interpret  their  actions.  We  can 
go  but  a  little  way.  We  know  if  a  bird  is  eat- 
ing or  drinking,  but  when  it  is  at  rest  the  ques- 
tion arises,  Is  it  thinking  ?  It  may  be  said  that 
the  bird  is  strictly  passive,  and  so  only  roused 
to  action  by  some  external  stimulant.  It  sees 
an  insect  and  pursues  it ;  but  if  no  insects  come 
in  sight  for  a  protracted  time,  then,  to  avoid 


92  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

starvation,  an  instinct  to  travel  is  roused  by  the 
cravings  of  an  empty  stomach.  I  cannot  incline 
to  a  view  that  makes  of  the  bird  merely  a  ma- 
chine. There  is  one  feature  of  the  year  limited 
hereabouts  to  the  closing  days  of  April  and  the 
beginning  of  May, — the  return  of  migratory 
birds.  It  is  unquestionable  that,  to  a  certain 
extent,  we  have  the  same  individuals  return 
year  after  year.  There  is  no  confusion  when 
they  arrive ;  no  restless  wandering  to  and  fro  ; 
no  crowding,  as  when  emigrants  are  herded  on 
the  steamer's  wharf.  The  wrens  go  to  their 
boxes,  the  rosebreasts  to  the  orchard,  the  oriole 
to  the  elm,  the  indigo-bird  to  the  shrubbery,  the 
swifts  to  the  chimney,  the  peewee  to  its  nesting- 
site  under  the  bridge.  There  is  no  confusion, 
but  orderly  return  to  the  routine  of  a  year  ago. 
This  immediate  distribution,  each  bird  to  its 
particular  haunt  of  the  preceding  year,  could 
scarcely  come  about  if  there  was,  on  the  part 
of  the  birds,  a  total  ignorance  of  the  locality  ; 
nor  is  there  any  delay  in  finding  materials  for 
nest-building,  but  this,  of  course,  is  not  so 
strange,  but  there  is  some  significance  in  the 
fact  that  when  material  was  provided  in  a  pre- 


A  Morning  in  May.  93 

vious  year,  this  is  remembered  and  the  same 
spots  promptly  visited.  I  have  aided  many  an 
oriole  and  great  crested  flycatcher  when  build- 
ing commenced,  and  the  aid  extended  and  ac- 
cepted then  seemed  the  following  spring  to  be 
expected,  which  I  submit  as  proof  positive  that 
I  was  dealing  with  the  same  birds.  A  little 
chippy,  the  hair-bird,  has  accepted  my  offering 
of  waxed  coarse  sewing-silk  as  a  nest  lining  and 
does  not  trouble  itself  to  hunt  for  hairs.  I 
hope,  if  my  pets  of  the  box-bush  live  long 
enough,  that  they  will  take  the  silk  directly  from 
my  hands.  The  wrens  of  my  porch  have  more 
than  once  raided  my  wife's  work-basket,  and  it 
was  indeed  a  funny  sight  when  one  of  them 
stepped  upon  a  cushion  and  was  pricked  by  a 
needle.  Half,  I  think,  of  the  delight  of  watch- 
ing the  birds  that  return  to  us  in  May  is  to 
realize  that  they  are  in  great  measure  our  friends 
of  other  years.  This  fact  makes  it  practicable 
to  go  directly  to  the  chosen  homes  of  any 
species.  We  lose  no  time,  and  happiness  would 
be  complete  were  fear  banished  from  the  bird's 
breast  and  the  word  "wild"  marked  obsolete  in 
the  dictionary.  It  is  steadily  decreasing  among 


94 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


the  birds  of  the  door-yard,  but  we  cannot  rest 
content  not  to  wander  beyond  its  confines  ;  and 
no  time  like  a  May  morning  to  plunge  into  the 
farthest  thicket,  tread  the  most  dismal  swamp, 


and  trace  old  pathways  through  the  darkest 
woods,  eager  as  ever  to  see  and  hear,  and,  hear- 
ing and  seeing,  to  solve  the  various  problems  of 
bird  nature  ;  problems  ever  set  before  us,  when 
out  of  doors,  but  never  in  such  bewildering 
profusion  as  when  we  start  early  on  our  rambles 
when  the  woods  are  greening  and  violets  fleck 
the  dewy  pastures. 


Dinner  at  Noon. 

THERE  is  a  great  deal  in  the  way  we  divide 
our  day,  and,  absurd  as  such  a  thing  may 
seem  at  first  thought,  there  is  something  to  be 
said  in  defence  of  dinner  at  noon.  Of  course 
everything  depends  upon  what  portion  of  each 
twenty-four  hours  is  set  aside  for  sleep  ;  but  it 
can  scarcely  be  called  irrational  to  select  the 
half-dozen  least  suggestive  hours,  and  these  are 
the  year  round  from  10  P.M.  to  4  A.M.  Not 
that  we  miss  nothing  by  being  then  asleep,  for 
every  hour  has  its  own  wonderful  history,  but, 
the  year  through,  we  lose  least  by  turning  our 
backs  upon  the  world  at  such  a  time. 

Dinner  at  noon  means  an  early  breakfast, — 
preposterously  early  to  many  people  ;  but  why 
not  follow  Nature  a  little  more  closely  than  we 
do  and  get  our  share  of  the  fruits  of  the  morn- 
ing? A  strawberry,  while  yet  the  dew  is  upon 
it,  is  one  of  the  marvels  of  Nature's  handiwork, 

95 


96  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


and  our  conception  of  the  world  about  us  is 
broadened  almost  indefinitely  by  a  closer  ac- 
quaintance than  people  usually  possess.  Strange 
as  it  seems,  most  people  that  I  have  met  appear 
to  have  a  horror  of  sunrise,  and  boast,  not  of 
witnessing  this  phenomenon,  but  of  having  per- 
sistently turned  their  backs  upon  it.  They  are 
welcome  to  do  so.  The  sun  does  not  feel  the 
slight,  and  will  go  on  rising  quite  indifferent  to 
humanity's  whims  and  oddities.  It  is  gravely 
asserted,  too,  that  there  is  danger  in  the  un- 
sunned air  of  early  morning,  and  insanity  is  the 
result  of  too  frequent  lungfuls  of  the  day  at 
dawn  ;  that  farmers  lose  their  sanity  because 
of  early  rising,  and,  if  not  quite  so  bad  as  this, 
at  least  their  mental  strength  is  prematurely 
weakened.  Perhaps  the  air  is  poison-laden  at 
dawn,  but  the  toilers  in  the  field  are  more 
probably  driven  insane  by  over-worry  than  by 
overmuch  breathing  of  the  morning  freshness. 
Obnoxious  politics,  rather  than  obnoxious  gases, 
cause  the  mischief.  Tariff  tinkering  and  stock 
gambling  can  and  do  work  greater  mischief 
with  the  farmer  than  miasmatic  taints  that  pass 
his  nostrils.  It  is  the  all  work  and  no  pay,  due 


Dinner  at  Noon.  97 

to  pernicious  legislation,  and  not  the  chill  or 
damp  that  greets  us  when  we  plunge  into  the 
odor-laden  air  of  a  bright  June  morning  and 
greet  the  coming  day.  The  familiar  distich 
concerning  "early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise"  has 
as  much  sense  as  sound,  and  this  cannot  be  said 
of  all  the  rhymes  of  all  our  rhymesters.  For 
one,  I  am  willing  to  run  the  risks  of  insanity  for 
the  sake  of  what  I  hear  at  sunrise,  and  in  spite 
of  the  sneers  of  aristocracy  will  eat  my  dinner 
at  noon  ;  and  I  hold  that  man  a  downright 
fool  who  will  not  judge  for  himself  what  is  best 
for  his  individual  needs,  or  lives  under  pro- 
test that  his  neighbor  may  have  no  occasion  to 
criticise.  Our  duty  to  our  neighbor  does  not 
extend  that  far.  If  it  did,  it  were  time  to  revo- 
lutionize the  world. 

If  the  early  morning  is  so  worthy  of  an  in- 
timate acquaintance,  why  has  not  the  world 
long  ago  made  the  discovery?  What  I  call 
"the  world"  has  done  so,  but  my  world  is  not 
yours.  Day  and  night  have  not  the  same  mean- 
ing in  the  city  as  they  have  in  the  country.  I 
have  often  wondered  if  the  robin  slept  with  one 
eye  open,  for,  however  indistinct  may  be  the 
7 


Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


first  faint  streak  of  light  in  the  east,  it  will  be 
detected  by  this  bird,  and  the  approach  of  day 
announced  in  no  uncertain  tones.  The  wrens 
that  are  nesting  near  my  window  are  first  to 
hear  the  news,  and,  with  no  further  toilet  than  a 
wing-shake  and  a  comfortable  yawn,  repeat  it 
from  corner  to  corner  of  the  house,  until  I  am 
in  no  doubt  as  to  the  approximate  time  of  day. 
Then,  one  by  one,  the  goodly  list  of  birds  about 
us  take  up  the  cry,  and  not  a  nook  or  corner  of 
the  farm  but  rings  with  the  tidings  that  the  day 
is  breaking.  Why  should  I  not  be  astir?  If 
the  world  now  is  fit  for  every  bird  that  flies,  I 
will  trust  to  not  being  out  of  place.  Whether 
poison  or  not,  I  daily  risk  the  morning  air  for 
the  sake  of  the  morning's  music.  Breakfast 
over,  I  am  ready,  while  yet  there  is  but  a  broad 
band  of  gilded  cloud  in  the  east,  to  take  my 
stand  under  the  old  oaks  and  listen.  The  leaves 
still  dripping  with  dew,  the  meadows  hidden  by 
low-lying  mist,  the  noonday  world  as  a  sealed 
book,  but  music  steals  from  it,  and  it  is  for  this 
I  came.  All  the  world  knows  our  wood-thiush. 
and  has  gone  ecstatic  over  it,  so  let  us  pass  it  by 
with  brief  mention.  Its  melody  fills  the  air 


Dinner  at  Noon.  99 


now,  unceasing  as  the  murmur  of  the  south 
wind  in  the  tall  pines.  The  songs  of  many 
thrushes  are  now  completely  filling  every  mo- 
ment, every  spot  to  which  we  wander.  We 
breathe  the  music  as  we  do  the  odor  of  the 
many  blossoms.  An  all-pervading  song  of  such 
subtle  sweetness  is  it  that  pleasure  gives  way  at 
last  to  a  feeling  akin  to  pain, — sweetness  that  is 
sad  rather  than  cheerful ;  the  continued  telling 
of  a  sorrowful  story,  of  love  lost  rather  than  of 
love  triumphant. 

How  very  different  the  song  of  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak  !  Not  even  those  very  learned 
people,  the  professional  ornithologists,  appear  to 
have  heard  it.  At  least,  judging  from  the  litera- 
ture of  the  subject,  these  birds  have  been  heard 
only  to  hum,  to  talk  with  their  fellow-grosbeaks, 
and  whistle  a  few  notes  as  if  to  refresh  their 
recollection  of  some  special  effort ;  but  the  song 
proper,  the  melodic  outburst  of  flute-like  notes, 
notes  that,  by  their  magic,  silence  other  birds 
and  will  stay  the  steps  of  any  mortal  not  a  fool, 
— these  appear  not  to  be  generally  known : 
grand,  exultant,  the  peroration  of  cheerfulness, 
the  perfect  hymn  of  absolute  content.  Hearing 


ioo  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

this,  the  impression  of  a  thrush's  supremacy  is 
changed.  But  such  is  not  the  only  song  of  this 
superb  singer.  When  in  a  meditative  mood 
this  grosbeak  has  a  song  that  we  fancy  is  retro- 
spective, so  far  as  the  singer  is  concerned.  It  is 
pitched  in  so  low  a  key  that  we  must  be  near  to 
hear  it,  and  while  we  listen  and  watch  the  bird 
the  thought  comes  to  us  that  now  the  grosbeak 
is  studying  some  new  effort,  one  of  transcendent 
merit,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  we  do,  for  this 
low,  meditative  strain  is  one  of  incomparable 
sweetness,  as  if  the  soul  of  a  flute  murmured  in 
its  dreams. 

In  all  such  outings  we  are  too  apt  to  ignore 
the  minor  minstrelsy  that  goes  so  far  to  perfect  a 
summer  morning.  By  actual  count,  I  recently 
heard  singing  at  the  same  time,  or  so  nearly  so 
as  to  give  that  impression,  fifteen  species  of 
birds,  and  there  are  several  others  that  I  have 
found  nesting  within  a  comparatively  short  dis- 
tance. Not  all  of  these  are  accounted  song- 
birds, that  is,  musical  in  a  marked  degree,  but 
their  efforts,  heard  with  others,  go  to  make  up 
a  chorus  that  is  inspiriting,  that  makes  you  be- 
lieve in  cheerfulness  as  a  gift  of  great  value. 


Dinner  at  Noon.  101 

The  great  crested  flycatcher  can  do  nothing 
but  cacophonously  screech,  and  it  teases  more 
than  any  ear-piercing  fife,  but  when  the  sound 
is  mingled  with  the  rustling  of  leaves,  the  united 
voices  of  summer  warbler,  redstart,  and  yellow- 
throat,  or  of  Carolina  wren  or  cardinal  red-bird, 
it  adds  a  decided  flavor  of  wildness  to  the  whole, 
and  so  is  quite  acceptable.  All  music  is  to  me 
mere  sound,  if  not  suggestive,  and  many  a  noise 
that  is  crude  and  disagreeable  in  one  locality 
may  be  pleasing  in  another.  The  roar  of  Ni- 
agara is  readily  imitated,  but  without  Niagara  is 
nothing  but  noise.  The  common  crow's  con- 
siderable vocabulary  is  but  a  series  of  harsh 
cries  if  the  poor  bird  is  caged  at  the  Zoo  ;  but 
given  a  crisp  October  morning,  with  the  forest 
draped  in  scarlet  and  the  far-off  skies  of  incom- 
parable blue, — hear  this  same  crow  now,  when 
perched  on  some  tall  tree-top,  its  rhythmic  call 
keeping  time  to  the  dropping  of  nuts  and  rus- 
tling of  falling  leaves, — hear  then  this  much- 
maligned  bird,  and  you  are  listening  to  music 
that  will  linger  long  in  your  memory. 

To  become  the  better  acquainted  with  our 
birds,  for  no  second-hand  knowledge  is  so  un- 


1O2  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

satisfactory,  and  at  times  exasperating,  as  the 
recorded  impressions  of  some  other  observer, 
whether  amateur  or  professional,  it  is  necessary 
not  only  to  see  and  hear  birds  collectively,  but 
to  single  out  some  one  of  them  as  it  flashes  by 
you,  and  follow  it  as  best  you  can.  You  must 
go  on  the  "faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady" 
principle ;  go  determined  to  follow  through 
thick  and  thin.  This  seems  much  easier  to  say 
than  do,  but  the  rambler  will  find  his  way  very 
seldom  insuperably  blocked.  Time  and  civiliza- 
tion have  about  obliterated  the  pathless  forest 
or  impenetrable  thicket,  at  least  on  this  side  of 
the  Mississippi  River.  Our  wildest  wilderness 
is  generally  a  rather  tame  affair,  so  it  is  not 
a  desperate  undertaking  to  go  to  the  edge  of 
a  swamp,  and,  by  going,  you  will  see  what  a 
picture  some  small  bird  in  which  you  are  inter- 
ested makes  of  a  mere  mud-hole,  some  other- 
wise desolate  spot,  shaded  by  rank  weeds,  and 
giving  off  malarial  odors.  Here,  to  your  infinite 
surprise,  you  will  be  greeted  by  songs  that  you 
have  not  previously  heard,  or  heard  indistinctly, 
as  when  a  yellow-throat  transforms  acknowl- 
edged ugliness  to  accepted  beauty  by  virtue 


Dinner  at  Noon. 


103 


of  the  creature's  earnest  but  not  unmusical 
warbling  of  such  words  as  witchery,  witchery, 
witch  !  Plunge  into  some  thicket  and  shut  your- 
self from  the  world  by  a  surrounding  wilderness 
of  twiggy  growths,  and  meet  face  to  face  a  Caro- 
lina wren.  The  bird  may  be  a  bit  surprised  at 


your  intrusion,  but  it  really  does  not  mean  dis- 
respect if,  as  is  likely,  it  demands,  "  How'd  ye 
get  here?"  with  startling  emphasis,  and  follows 
the  question  with  a  peremptory  "  Get  out,  get 
out,  get  out  !"  You  will  be  astonished  at  first, 
then  amused,  and  so  entertained  that  the  ap- 


104          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


parent  rudeness  will  have  no  depressing  effect, 
and  on  reaching  the  open  country  and  again  in 
a  beaten  path,  you  will  wonder  why  you  have 
never  been  so  inquisitive  as  to  birds  before. 

In  a  morning's  outing  worthy  of  the  name, 
if  in  early  summer,  the  chances  are  that  you 
will  find  a  bird's  nest  as  you  trace  the  narrow 
paths  of  the  wood  or  break  one  for  yourself 
through  a  thicket, — perhaps  the  nest  of  a  small 
flycatcher  or  of  one  of  the  vireos,  adepts  in 
the  art  of  catching  flies.  Pretty  structures  these 
that  bear  close  examination,  for  they  are  skil- 
fully built,  and  no  little  engineering  skill  has 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  their  construction 
that  the  wind  and  rain  may  not  destructively 
prevail  against  them.  Perhaps  a  shrill  buzzing, 
as  of  an  angry  bee,  may  startle  you,  and  again 
and  again  you  look,  but  in  vain,  for  your 
assailant.  It  is  an  irate  humming-bird,  whose 
nest  you  have  unwittingly  approached.  If 
you  look  long  and  patiently  you  may  find 
the  latter,  saddled  on  some  horizontal  branch, 
looking  like  a  small  lichen-coated  excrescence, 
but  fashioned  with  infinite  care.  Such  nest- 
hunting  does  the  birds  no  harm,  and  you  return 


Dinner  at  Noon.  105 

from  your  tramp  amply  rewarded,  and,  it  may 
be  safely  added,  mentally  refreshed.  Not  a 
bird  that  does  not  repay  the  rambler  for  all  his 
trouble  in  following  it  into  its  most  secret 
haunts.  You  are  always  instructed  as  well  as 
entertained,  and  more  sure  of  seeing  and  hear- 
ing wisdom  of  act  and  utterance  than  when  with 
crowds  of  men  ;  for  while  there  is  no  bird  that 
does  not  make  mistakes,  they  are  never  such 
lifelong  blunderers  as  ourselves.  After  an  early 
morning  outing,  you  return  with  a  deeper  in- 
sight into  the  world  about  you  and  discover 
fountains  of  pleasure-giving  knowledge  that  had 
hitherto  been  unsuspected,  though  perhaps  dur- 
ing all  your  life  within  easy  reach. 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  dinner  at 
noon  ?  Do  you  remember  that  my  outings 
commence  at  dawn,  and  I  feel  tardy  if  not  in 
advance  of  the  rising  sun?  It  is  not  strange 
that,  old  as  I  am,  I  still  cling  to  that  delight  of 
childhood,  a  bite  between  meals,  fit  subject,  by 
the  way,  for  a  reminiscential  essay,  and,  as  mid- 
day draws  near,  am  ready  for  a  substantial  meal. 
Dinner  at  noon  is  not,  from  this  point  of  view, 
to  be  sneered  at.  And  after  it?  As  nature 


io6          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

takes  a  nooning,  birds  are  silent,  flowers  sleep, 
and  even  the  brook  seems  to  dally  drowsily  with 
the  pebbles  that  fret  its  course,  why  not  follow 
their  example  ?  A  noonday  meal,  a  mid-day 
nap,  and  then  ready  to  meet  the  world  on  even 
terms.  I  am  receptive  to  the  renewed  activities 
of  the  closing  day.  In  short,  dinner  at  noon 
means  two  short  days  rather  than  one  long 
period  of  activity  in  the  twenty-four  hours  ;  and 
who,  when  a  child,  but  did  not  always  prefer 
two  pieces  of  pie  rather  than  one  big  one  ?  It 
seemed  more,  whether  it  was  or  not,  and  that 
made  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Let  what 
is  before  us  seem  superlatively  excellent  and 
so  it  is,  in  that  mightiest  sense,  unto  our  own 
selves. 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter. 

IT  requires  no  labored  mental  effort  to  com- 
prehend the  philosophy  of  shelter ;  but  what 
of  this  necessity  of  our  lives  in  its  poetical 
aspect  ?  That  it  has  such  an  aspect  may,  in- 
deed, be  asked,  and  it  is  not  strange  that 
there  should  be  serious  doubts  as  to  its  exist- 
ence. But  shelter  is  a  good  deal  more  than 
the  roof  and  walls  of  your  accustomed  home  ; 
much  more  than  the  protection  of  some  awning, 
or  umbrella,  or  the  open  doorway  of  a  friend's 
house,  however  welcome  you  may  be  therein. 
Daily  and  in  innumerable  ways  we  are  taking 
shelter,  even  to  the  seeking  it,  from  the  results  of 
our  blunders,  in  ways  that  are  open  to  question. 
But  all  this  is  prosy  to  the  point  of  dulness. 
Happily,  on  the  other  hand,  for  some  at  least, 
it  is  a  positive  pleasure  to  turn  from  the  civilized 
to  the  savage,  from  the  formal  and  fixed  to  the 
unrestrained  and  circumstanced  by  chance  only, 

107 


108  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

as  when,  overtaken  by  a  storm,  we  seek  some 
shelter  in  the  country,  in  perhaps  a  true  wilder- 
ness,— an  effective  shelter  wherein  we  are  safe 
from  the  discomfort  or  possible  danger  incident 
to  exposure,  and,  while  unconcerned  as  to  our- 
selves, can  contemplate  Nature  in  her  fretful  or 
positively  angry  mood,  whether  a  gentle  rain  or 
a  driving  storm  prevails  ;  for  there  is  almost  as 
much  difference  between  a  summer  shower  and 
a  cloud-burst  as  between  bathing  and  drowning. 
We  are  much  too  far  from  Nature  when  at  home 
during  a  rain.  The  world  as  seen  from  the 
windows  even  of  a  country  house  is  too  much 
like  the  moon  seen  through  a  telescope.  Realiz- 
ing that  there  are  mountain-tops,  we  long  to 
stand  upon  them.  Distance  does  not  always 
lend  enchantment  to  the  view.  A  far-off  tree, 
to  come  to  tamer  things,  is  a  disturbing  sight 
until  I  have  wandered  through  the  wilderness 
of  its  tangled  branches.  A  hollow  in  any  tree 
frets  me  until  I  have  seen  the  owl  that  lives 
therein.  I  would  knock  at  the  doors  of  all  my 
neighbors  that  are  not  burdened  with  humanity, 
and  see  if  life  has  not  features  among  them  that 
might  by  adoption  lessen  the  load  that  I  am 


\Vhere  old  Poaetquissings  widens  to  a  little  lake. 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  109 

doomed  to  carry.  On  the  other  hand,  to  at- 
tempt to  withstand  the  fury  of  a  raging  tempest 
as  does  the  lonely  chestnut  in  a  pasture  or  the 
old  oak  by  the  roadside  is  foolhardy.  We  need 
adequate  shelter,  but  its  value  is  in  proportion 
to  its  simplicity.  A  hollow  sycamore  has  been 
my  safe  harbor  more  than  once,  and,  standing 
therein  while  it  rained,  I  felt  as  an  owl  must 
feel,  and  went  home  hooting  my  satisfaction, 
not  humanly  shouting  it. 

As  an  episode  in  a  rainy-day  ramble,  give  me 
an  overturned  boat  under  which  I  can  lie  while 
the  shower  passes.  There  is  rare  pleasure  in 
living  for  a  few  moments  like  a  meadow-mouse. 
To  be  one  with  the  wildness  about  us  is  an 
unending  joy,  for  the  memory  is  too  much 
impressed  to  have  the  pictures  fade,  though  you 
live  as  long  as  the  myths  of  tradition.  Well  I 
remember,  how  long  ago  it  boots  not  to  tell, 
being  overtaken  by  a  sudden  shower  while  drift- 
ing with  the  current  where  old  Poaetquissings 
widens  to  a  little  lake.  Quickly  the  little  craft 
was  turned  inshore,  and  just  as  the  initial  pound- 
ing drops  came  rattling  down  the  boat  was  tilted 
nearly  over  and  I  was  safely  ensconced  beneath 


1  io          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


it.  Never  was  the  creek  more  beautiful  to  my 
faithful  eyes,  for  to  my  mind  Nature  has  no- 
where else  been  so  lavish  of  her  charms.  The 
rain  fell  in  huge  drops,  that  struck  the  water 
like  pebbles,  making  a  glittering  splash,  for  the 
storm  was  local  in  its  strictest  sense  and  the  sun 
shone  brightly  in  the  western  sky.  While  lying 
in  my  snug  retreat  I  saw  a  pretty  wood-duck 
with  her  brood  moving  by  in  fancied  security, 
as  if  no  harm  would  come  while  it  was  raining. 
Presently  the  duck  stopped,  turned,  and  faced 
me,  as  if  it  purposed  sharing  my  shelter.  How 
my  heart  beat !  I  feared  the  duck  would  hear 
my  breathing.  Suddenly  when  very  near  it 
stopped,  and  I  could  plainly  see  its  bright  black 
eyes.  The  young  gathered  about,  and  the 
group  rested  as  content  as  I  was  under  the 
boat.  The  shower  was  now  over  and  I  was 
anxious  to  continue  on  my  journey,  but  could 
not  miss  such  an  opportunity  to  see  these 
wary  birds.  After  some  chattering,  a  rather 
melodious  "peeping"  by  the  young,  the  parent 
duck  led  them  back  to  the  middle  of  the  creek. 
I  crawled  from  my  hiding-place,  and  the  moment 
I  stood  up  the  mother  disappeared  and  the 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  ill 

young  flapped  the  water  for  several  seconds 
until  white  with  foam ;  then  all  were  gone. 
Splatter-dock  and  arrow-head  were  here  above 
the  water,  which  was  so  shallow  I  think  the 
birds  escaped  by  hiding  rather  than  diving. 
Many  a  time  since  then  I  have  sheltered  my- 
self in  this  or  some  similar  way  and  watched  the 
creek  for  hours.  It  is  hard  upon  one's  muscles, 
but  I  never  remember  my  patience  to  have 
gone  unrepaid.  To  keep  yourself  hidden  is  the 
secret  of  success  in  observing  wild  life.  By  so 
doing  you  gather  in  an  hour  more  practical 
natural  history  than  by  any  other  plan  that  I 
have  tried  or  know  of  others  trying.  It  is 
astonishing  how  often  aquatic  life  comes  to  the 
surface  ;  and  it  is  something  to  see  even  the 
heads  of  turtles,  snakes,  eels,  frogs,  and  perhaps 
a  mink  comes  inshore  with  a  fish  in  his  jaws. 
Taking  shelter  in  some  chance  way  from  a  pass- 
ing tumult  in  the  overarching  skies,  we  happily 
forget,  for  the  time,  the  crushing  weight  of  our 
own  importance  as  man,  and  see  with  the  clearer 
vision  and  interpret  with  the  unprejudiced  wit 
of  the  purely  animal.  Nothing  so  surely  rids 
us  of  our  sense  of  importance  as  to  find  the 


112  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

storm  no  respecter  of  persons,  and  to  be  forced, 
like  any  bird  of  the  air  or  beast  of  the  field,  to 
seek  the  nearest  shelter.  With  no  time  allowed 
us  for  selection,  we  accept  the  first  offer  of  a 
shield  from  the  pitiless  storm,  and  our  thank- 
fulness converts,  or  should  convert,  the  hovel 
into  a  palace. 

Herein  lies  the  poetry  of  shelter.  Contra- 
dictory as  it  may  seem,  I  have  been  much  of 
late  in  palatial  hovels.  Of  course  we  are  never 
satisfied  ;  that  is  out  of  the  question.  Com- 
fortably sheltered  from  the  rain,  within  arm's 
length  of  the  best  bit  of  wildness  in  a  day's 
journey,  with  birds  so  near  we  can  see  their 
eyes,  and  snakes  in  such  proximity  we  can 
count  their  scales,  we  delude  ourselves  into 
thinking  such  opportunities  can  be  had  on  de- 
mand, and,  peering  out  from  our  shed,  cave,  or 
hollow  tree,  continually  ask  ourselves  the  ques- 
tion, Is  it  going  to  clear  ?  Do  our  clear- weather 
days  yield  us  such  profit  that  an  occasional  rainy 
one  can  justly  cause  us  regret  ?  The  anxiety 
for  the  storm's  cessation  had  better  be  set  aside 
for  an  hour,  and  the  best  made  of  a  passing  op- 
portunity. How  many  pages  have  been  printed 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  113 


of  wild  life  in  the  rain  ?  Clear-weather  men 
have  grown  eloquent  over  clear-weather  birds, 
but  what  of  the  thrush  that  has  sought  shelter 
and  the  hawk  that  is  soaring  above  the  passing 
clouds  ?  What  of  the  fragile  insects  that  were 
dancing  in  the  sunbeams  and  will  reappear  with 
the  returning  sunshine  ?  No  naturalist  has  done 
full  justice  to  the  most  commonplace  locality. 
If  he  would  occasionally  go  abroad  with  only  a 
pencil  and  paper  and  take  notes  instead  of  speci- 
mens, what  a  brightening  would  there  be  of 
zoological  text-books  !  The  younger  men  are 
too  eager  to  increase  their  collections  ;  the  older 
men  find  the  work  too  laborious  ;  but  a  change 
may  come,  and  he  who  has  best  made  known 
the  habits  of  every  creature  we  meet  will  loom 
up  as  greatest  among  naturalists.  There  is  some- 
thing veiy  delightful  in  seeing  a  woodpecker 
put  his  head  out  of  doors,  or  a  thrush  peep 
from  a  leafy  shelter,  to  see  if  the  rain  is  over. 
It  is  ludicrous  to  see  a  frog  poke  his  nose  above 
the  surface  of  the  water,  ready  to  croak  again, 
when  bang  !  goes  a  drop  of  rain  on  his  head, 
and  down  he  goes  into  the  depths  to  wait  for 
perhaps  another  hour.  All  animal  life  appears 
8 


114          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

to  know  better  when  it  is  going  to  rain  than 
when  it  is  going  to  clear.  It  is  said  that  the 
robin  is  an  excellent  weather  prophet  to  this 
extent,  but  at  times  he  is  wofully  mistaken.  A 
lull  in  the  storm  is  supposed  to  be  the  end  of  it, 
and  the  woods  ring  with  the  bird's  premature 
rejoicing ;  and,  strange  to  relate,  some  people 
are  fooled  all  their  lives  by  the  bird's  mistakes, 
and  yet  swear  to  the  last  that  the  robin  is  as  safe 
a  guide  as  the  best  barometer  that  man  can 
build.  I  believe  in  the  robin,  but  always  fortify 
my  belief  by  carrying  an  umbrella. 

Here  is  my  last  experience  in  a  chance  shel- 
ter, wherein  I  tarried  for  two  hours,  snug  as  any 
snail  in  its  shell.  I  was  not  tired  ;  I  had  not 
walked  a  dozen  miles  that  day ;  and  yet  the 
idea  of  stopping  for  a  while  was  not  an  annoy- 
ance. My  aimless  wandering  had  been  through 
neglected  pastures,  where  the  cattle  were  forced 
to  search  for  the  scanty  patches  of  sweet  grass, 
and  in  so  much  of  the  region  as  had  reverted 
to  Nature's  care  there  was  all  the  charm  again 
of  Nature's  taste.  What  though  the  clouds  were 
gathering?  The  ground-floor  of  earth  was  too 
attractive  for  me  to  explore  the  attic.  Clouds 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  115 

might  gather  and  the  storm  break  at  last,  but  I 
would  not  for  such  reason  part  company  with 
the  sparrows  in  the  hedge.  And  the  storm  did 
break.  A  few  admonishing  drops  came  gently 
down,  and,  tapping  the  tough  leaves  of  the  oak, 
made  known  their  mission.  It  was  their  busi- 
ness to  announce  that  it  was  going  to  rain. 
Receiving  the  message,  I  took  shelter  in  an 
ideal  spot, — in  a  great  hollow  willow- tree  stand- 
ing where  the  creek  bends  almost  at  a  right 
angle.  This  old  tree,  for  years  past,  has  been 
put  to  many  uses.  It  has  often  been  the  store- 
house of  picnic  parties,  and  years  ago  had  been 
used  as  a  stove,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  char 
the  walls  and  roof  and  make  them  no  longer 
available  as  homes  of  ants,  spiders,  and  un- 
canny creeping  things.  I  had  been  here  before, 
and  it  is  ever  a  pleasure  to  feel  that  one  is 
not  a  stranger.  To  feel  that  we  are  strangers 
deadens  our  appreciation  of  whatever  we  see. 
I  filled  the  hollow  in  the  tree  without  discom- 
fort, and  before  me  was  the  winding  creek,  with 
alternate  pasture  and  woodland  reaching  to  its 
shore.  At  the  time  there  was  no  apparent  cur- 
rent, but  in  a  few  moments  the  tide  turned. 


1 1 6  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


The  twigs  and  leaves  that  had  passed  by  re- 
turned. Very  slowly  but  steadily  the  waters 
crept  again  over  the  wide  reach  of  barren  mud 
and  up  the  slimy  sides  of  the  stumps  of  trees 
felled,  it  may  be,  centuries  ago, — stumps  that 
might  tell  strange  stories  had  they  tongues. 
What  a  delight  to  talk  to  a  tree  that  never  saw 
a  white  man  !  The  rain  continued  ;  the  sound 
of  the  million  drops  about  me  was  a  steady 
hum  that  did  not  deaden  other  sounds.  Far 
and  near  were  merry-hearted  birds  that  sang 
sweetly  as,  like  me,  they  waited  for  sunshine  ; 
but  not  even  the  steady  dripping  of  raindrops 
is  monotonous.  A  gentle  breeze  stirs  to  greater 
activity,  and  at  times  there  was  a  roar  like  that 
of  the  surf  of  the  far-off  sea. 

While  waiting  and  watching,  I  asked  myself, 
how  old  is  this  creek  ?  When  did  the  tide  for 
the  first  time  explore  this  winding  valley  ?  when 
did  the  waters  of  many  sparkling  springs  first 
greet  the  sunshine,  and,  collecting,  wander  to- 
wards the  river  ?  Even  if  we  cannot  contemplate 
the  end  of  all  things,  we  are  always  curious 
about  their  beginnings.  "At  the  close  of  the 
Glacial  period,"  glibly  replies  the  geologist ; 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  1 1 7 

but,  cunning  as  he  is,  he  never  ventures  upon  a 
more  definite  statement.  Perhaps  ten  thousand 
years  ago,  perhaps  ten  times  ten  thousand. 
The  only  satisfaction  is  that  we  have  abundant 
room  for  private  speculation.  It  is  a  genuine 
pleasure  to  have  a  few  millenniums  to  squander 
and  yet  keep  within  bounds.  Lord  Kelvin  tells 
us  the  age  of  the  earth  may  be  so  much  or  so 
much  ;  only  a  trifle  of  thirteen  millions  of  years 
between  the  extremes  !  Such  estimates  are  not 
satisfactory.  If  Crosswicks  Creek  before  me  is 
only  ten  thousand  years  old,  it  is  a  mere  child 
yet,  to  be  sure,  but  we  can  learn  a  good  deal 
from  children.  This  fluviatile  youngster  has 
had  several  millions  of  high  and  low  tides,  and 
still  can  smile  serenely  whether  the  day  is  clear 
or  cloudy.  Its  ups  and  downs  do  not  disturb 
its  temper,  and  this  is  a  fact  worth  knowing. 
Do  men  laugh  when  it  is  low  tide  with  them  ? 
Are  they  never  fools  at  high  tide  ? 

As  I  watched  and  waited,  I  thought  of  a 
dead  creek  I  had  lately  visited, — a  creek  that 
had  flowed  where  now  is  a  high,  dry,  upland 
field.  Running  waters  are  tireless  scribes,  re- 
cording their  autobiography  up  to  their  last 


1 1 8          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

moments.  "  He  who  runs  must  write,"  is  the 
law  of  their  existence  ;  but  "  he  who  comes 
among  men  must  read,"  does  not  hold  good. 
If  the  record  contradicts  a  careless  precon- 
ception, then  the  man  is  often  brazen  enough  to 
call  Nature  an  ugly  name.  An  old  man  who 
looked  on  while  others  were  digging  went  away 
after  hearing  much  discussion,  muttering, — 

"  Place  little  reliance 
On  men  of  science." 

I  do  not  wonder.  But  this  creek  of  other  days 
had  its  pretty  story.  It  flowed  and  fretted  be- 
fore Crosswicks  Creek  came  into  being.  It  car- 
ried the  sand  from  the  adjoining  hills  and  spread 
it  over  a  plain  ;  it  bore  ice  with  pebbles  encased, 
and  dropped  the  pebbles  with  as  little  regularity 
as  plums  in  a  pudding, — often  no  plums  at  all, 
like  my  piece  of  pudding  when  a  little  boy. 
Storms  occurred  in  those  long-gone  days,  and 
the  waters  were  soiled.  Mud  and  clay  replaced 
the  clean  sand  and  covered  the  bed  of  the  one- 
time stream.  Such  in  brief  was  the  story  told  ; 
but  there  is  another  chapter.  In  the  sand,  and 
often  under  layers  of  clay,  were  flakes  of  stone 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  119 


such  as  man  only  can  produce,  and  finished 
blades  of  stone  wherewith  man  cut  his  food  and 
fashioned  his  clothing.  We  think  of  our  own 
people  as  men  of  a  distant  past,  who  came  here 
some  two  centuries  ago, — think  of  them  as  see- 
ing this  country  when  it  was  young  and  fresh  ; 
and  we  are  quite  lost  in  contemplating  the 
Indian  who  preceded  our  ancestors.  His  is 
antiquity  too  great  for  our  decipherment.  But 
now  a  more  remote  phase  of  human  activities 
is  laid  bare.  It  is  sufficiently  plain  to  those 
willing  to  see,  and  a  source  of  endless  amuse- 
ment when  in  connection  therewith  we  witness 
the  antics  of  the  overwise  who  have  been  pro- 
claiming that  such  things  could  not  be, — who 
overvalue  theory  and  undervalue  veracity. 

The  rain  is  over.  The  steady  hum  of  the 
millions  of  drops  has  toned  down  to  the  drip- 
ping of  a  few  thousands.  Every  leaf  holds  a 
few  sparkling  gems  wherewith  it  is  loath  to 
part,  but  the  greedy  earth  demands  every  one, 
and  mischievous  breezes  scatter  them  over  the 
grass  and  into  the  bosom  of  the  swelling  tide. 
Though  birds  carry  no  barometers  about  them, 
they  know  when  the  change  has  come,  and  how 


12O  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


promptly  do  they  venture  from  their  shelters  ! 
Not  a  robin  but  is  shouting  now,  and  the  gentler 
strains,  the  refined  expressions  of  sweet  content, 
such  as  the  song-thrush  knows,  ring  through 
the  leafy  arches  of  old  woods.  Not  a  redstart 
but  is  on  the  alert  for  venturesome  flies,  not  a 
greenlet  but  begins  his  song  in  praise  of  tireless 
energy.  It  is  a  strange  medley  that  is  now 
heard,  a  confusion  that  frets  us  if  we  have  a 
preference ;  and  such  is  always  mine,  when 
above  all  these  varied  songs  I  hear  the  rose- 
breast,  whose  magic  song  snaps  sorrow's  chain. 
How  few  people  appear  to  have  heard  this  bird, 
if  we  may  judge  from  what  has  been  written  ! 
As  well  say  that  you  have  heard  some  great 
master  when  he  was  only  tuning  his  violin,  as 
to  claim  familiarity  with  the  rosebreast's  song 
on  hearing  a  few  high  notes.  A  finished  per- 
formance is  the  bird's  hymn  to  contemplation, 
which  the  rosebreast  withholds  from  all  who 
are  not  very  near  to  it.  The  rambler  must 
share  the  shelter  of  the  same  tree,  and  then,  it 
may  be,  this  marvellous  musician  will  take  him 
into  his  confidence  and  warble  strains  no  thrush 
need  ever  hope  to  echo. 


The  Poetry  of  Shelter.  121 

The  glittering  sunshine  calls  me  out  of  doors, 
or,  now,  from  a  doorless  house,  and  I  do  not 
leave,  I  trust,  unmindful  of  the  merits  of  this 
modest  shelter.  Trees  have  a  new  meaning 
now  to  me.  Not  only  their  leafy  branches,  but 
their  bodies,  offer  shelter,  so  I  have  more  homes 
on  earth  than  I  ever  dreamed  of.  When  the 
storm  breaks,  a  man  need  not  be  unhappy  in  a 
hollow  tree.  It  affords  the  protection  that  he 
asked,  and  what  more  had  he  a  right  to  expect  ? 
But  there  is  also  added  the  goodly  gift  of  de- 
lightful suggestiveness. 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole. 

THE  humming-bird  is  summer  written  in 
italics ;  the  scarlet  tanager  is  the  season's  ex- 
clamation point.  By  nothing  else  is  our  delight 
at  summer's  charm  so  well  expressed.  We 
never  look  beyond  these  birds  for  greater  glory. 
They  are  the  completion,  we  feel,  of  the  sum- 
mer's effort  to  beautify  our  woods  and  by-ways. 
The  Baltimore  oriole  is  a  strong  competitor. 
There  is  the  tropical  brilliancy  and  almost  the 
humming-bird's  activity,  but  many  soon  weary 
of  this  display  of  orange  and  black,  of  flame 
and  smoke,  because  of  the  tiresome  screeching 
with  which  its  presence  is  proclaimed.  I  have 
known  nervous  people  driven  in-doors  by  the 
oriole's  harsh  cries,  that  can  best  be  likened  to 
the  piercing  creak  of  unoiled  machinery.  But 
it  is  not  always  so.  Early  in  the  blessed  month 
of  May  a  smooth-tongued  oriole  came  to  the 
door-yard  elm,  and  with  all  the  vivacity  of  its 

122 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  123 

race,  while  threading  the  maze  of  branches  of 
this  fine  old  tree,  sang  in  dulcet  tones  these 
cheerful  words  :  "  Music,  good  music,  all  day  !" 
My  oriole  I  called  it  from  the  day  it  came, 
and  when  you  take  to  a  bird  it  often  happens 
that  the  bird  will  take  to  you.  Not  actually,  as 
you  might  say  this  of  a  person,  but  so  it  seems 
in  your  fancy,  and  that  is  practically  the  same 
thing.  Whether  the  bird  knew  me  or  not,  I 
knew  the  bird.  The  elm-tree  was  not  the 
oriole's  only  home.  It  wandered  along  the 
hill-side,  even  to  my  neighbor's  door-yard,  and 
often  was  so  far  away  that  I  could  scarcely  hear 
the  sweet  song  that  so  effectually  drove  away 
dull  care.  But  these  wanderings  were  always 
of  short  duration.  The  distance  was  never 
great  as  measured  by  the  bird's  power  of  flight, 
and  after  a  period  of  comparative  silence  the 
bird  would  suddenly  reappear  and  rouse  the 
very  echoes  with  its  inspiring  song,  "  Music, 
good  music,  all  day!"  I  say  "comparative 
silence,"  for  silence  absolute  does  not  occur. 
We  have  but  to  consider  the  needs  of  the  birds 
and  they  will  make  return  of  the  best  they  have 
to  offer,  their  songs.  There  are  wrens  in  my 


124  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


boxes  and  in  a  corner  of  my  porch.  There 
are  cardinal  redbirds  in  my  garden,  and  rose- 
breasted  grosbeaks  in  the  orchard.  Song-spar- 
rows nest  in  the  gooseberry-bushes,  and  robins, 
thrushes,  chats,  vireos,  and  flycatchers  tarry 
wherever  they  can  find  a  nesting-place,  and 
all  are  in  full  song.  So  it  is,  therefore,  that 
my  elm-tree  oriole  speaks  not  for  itself  only  but 
for  them  when  its  clear,  flute-like  whistle  pro- 
claims from  dewy  morn  until  the  gloaming, 
"  Music,  sweet  music,  all  day  !" 

When  in  the  misty,  murky  east 

Forbidding  clouds  are  piled, 
Fit  realms  where  imps  of  darkness  feast 

And  gladness  never  smiled, 
Ere  long  there  comes,  despite  the  glance 

Of  night's  forbidding  frown, 
The  cheery  morning's  swift  advance, 

And  casts  her  foeman  down  ; 
Then  one  fair  bird,  unmoved  by  fear, 

Speaks  to  my  doubting  soul, 
Revives  my  hopes  with  words  of  cheer, 

My  elm-tree  oriole. 

The  hours  pass,  the  sun  in  might 

Bids  gloomy  shadows  flee, 
As  some  strange  troubling  dream,  the  night 

Has  fled  beyond  the  sea. 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  125 

No  merry  warbler  of  the  wood, 

No  songster  of  the  field, 
Hath  his  heart-stirring  warmth  withstood, 

To  his  command  they  yield. 
And  songs  of  love,  life's  sweetest  song, 

Through  field  and  forest  roll, 
And  foremost  in  the  tuneful  throng 

My  elm-tree  oriole. 

The  shadows  of  the  coming  night 

May  fill  the  leafy  glen, 
The  sunny  landscape  shut  from  sight 

And  darkness  reign  again, 
But  not  a  song  of  sunny  day 

Is  lost ;  we  hear  them  still, 
They  linger  by  the  foot-path  way, 

The  meadows,  and  the  hill : 
Songs  from  the  hearts  of  birds  as  true 

As  needle  to  the  pole, 
But  nearest  of  them  all  are  you, 

My  elm-tree  oriole. 

Now,  having  heard  this  song  from  time  to 
time  during  the  summer  ;  having  seen  the  bird 
weave  the  fabric  of  a  wonderful  nest,  suspended 
from  the  most  yielding  of  the  tree's  terminal 
twigs  ;  having  seen  the  young  carefully  inducted 
into  the  wide  world  with  all  its  delights  and 
dangers,  and  heard  the  last  regretful  chirp  of 
young  and  old  as  they  leave  the  home  tree  for 


126          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

fresh  woods  and  pastures  new ;  even  after  all 
this,  can  we  say  that  we  have  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  these  birds?  I  think  not.  We  have 
as  deep  waters  to  fathom  as  when  we  deal  with 
mankind,  and  not  only  as  deep,  but  different. 
Bird-nature  is  not  our  nature,  and  it  is  an  open 
question  whether  or  not  it  is  in  our  power  to 
rightly  interpret  the  motives  of  the  birds  about 
us.  To  slaughter  them  that  we  may  count  the 
fibres  of  a  particular  muscle  or  determine  the 
precise  tint  of  a  feather  gives  us  no  clue  to 
what  most  concerns  us, — what  birds  do  and  why 
they  do  it  Perhaps  we  shall  never  know  ;  but 
our  present  ignorance,  of  which  we  are  aware, 
is  not  painful  or  at  all  irritating,  when  we  are 
striving  to  overcome  it,  but  really  a  source  of 
pleasure.  We  are  drawn  the  more  to  the  birds 
because  of  it,  ever  hopeful  of  a  solution  of  the 
problem  at  last,  and  if  doomed  to  die,  as  is 
probable,  without  that  full  light  to  which  we 
aspire,  we  have  at  least  had  the  pleasure  of 
listening,  while  we  labored,  to  "  Music,  good 
music,  all  day  !" 

Though  almost  hourly  in  evidence,  the  elm- 
tree  oriole  did  not  overshadow  the  other  birds. 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  127 

Not  a  condor  of  the  Andes  could  thrust  my 
door-step  wrens  into  the  shade,  nor  majestic 
eagle  lessen  the  glory  of  that  darling  of  the 
door-yard,  the  song-sparrow.  I  will  not  attempt 
to  explain  it,  but  the  fact  stands  unmoved  and 
immovable,  birds,  unlike  all  other  forms  of 
animal  life,  do  not  weary  us.  We  may  wish,  at 
times,  that  they  were  not  so  noisy,  yet  his  is  a 
brutal  hand  that  would  brush  them  aside.  For 
their  many  merits  we  readly  overlook  such  a 
trivial  blemish  as  excessive  loquacity.  Think 
of  driving  into  the  deserts  all  of  our  own  species 
that  talk  too  much.  Who  of  us  would  be  left  ? 
The  literature  of  the  subject,  ornithology, 
covering  thousands  of  pages  and  hundreds  of 
titles,  has  heretofore  dealt  with  bird  anatomy, 
classification,  and  their  habits,  and  only  at  rarest 
intervals  has  a  single  word  gone  up  in  their  de- 
fence. Because  some  birds  are  fruit-eaters, 
they  are  proclaimed  destructive  to  our  horticul- 
tural interests  ;  because  crows  like  very  young 
chickens,  the  poultry-men  are  up  in  arms  ;  and 
so  runs  on  this  sickening  twaddle  through  many 
chapters.  There  has  been  too  little  said  of  the 
other  side,  as  is  usual.  What  of  the  insects  and 


128          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


worms  that  were  sapping  the  strength  of  the 
fruit-trees  ;  what  of  the  millions  of  grubs  and 
of  destructive  cut- worms  devoured  by  the  crow  ? 
I  have  seen  the  stomach  of  a  crow  that  proved 
to  be  full  almost  to  overflowing  with  cut-worms 
that  were  gathered  the  very  morning  of  the 
bird's  death  at  the  hands  of  an  obstinate,  igno- 
rant, prejudiced  farmer  in  that  man's  own  field. 
I  do  not  speak  strongly  without  reason.  I  have 
in  mind  a  cherry-tree,  bearing  phenomenally  fine 
fruit  in  great  abundance.  As  soon  as  there  was 
a  trace  of  blush  upon  the  cherries  the  robins 
came  and  feasted,  and,  as  was  claimed,  to  the 
entire  destruction  of  the  crop.  Not  one  bird, 
but  several,  came,  and  then  the  cat-birds  fol- 
lowed. "  No  pies  or  puddings  ;  none  to  can 
for  next  winter," — these  dolorous  cries  went  up 
throughout  the  house,  and  had  there  been  no 
staying  hand,  the  arms  of  an  arsenal  would  have 
been  brought  to  bear  upon  the  offending  birds. 
There  was  as  much  mourning  in-doors  as  out  in 
the  yard  there  was  "  Music,  good  music,  all  day !" 
The  day  of  ripened  fruit  came  at  last,  and  all 
the  one-time  mourners  feasted  ;  our  neighbors 
feasted.  We  gathered  until  weary  of  gathering  ; 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  129 

until  every  closet  was  burdened  with  cherries, 
canned,  pickled,  and  preserved,  and  then  the  un- 
used fruit  finally  fell  from  the  tree  in  such  quan- 
tities that  the  grass  about  the  tree-trunk  was 
destroyed.  The  truth  was,  we  had  fed  the  birds 
and  the  birds  had  fed  us,  and  more,  they  had 
entertained  us.  They  had  sung  whenever  we 
appeared,  and  through  that  summer  there  was 
not  a  moment  when,  wearied  of  the  nagging  of 
an  exacting  world,  we  could  not  turn  to  the  birds 
of  the  door-yard  and  be  soothed  by  "  Music, 
good  music,  all  day  !" 

All  birds  are  a  delight  to  both  the  eye  and 
ear.  I  know  of  no  one  that  is  ugly  when  in 
its  proper  place.  I  know  of  no  one  that  is 
discordant  when  waking  the  echoes  of  its  own 
home.  The  dull  brown  diver  of  the  mill-pond 
is  a  sorry  spectacle  when  waddling  over  the 
ground  in  search  of  water,  but  the  moment  that 
element  is  reached  all  this  bird's  awkwardness 
disappears.  The  herons  and  bitterns,  as  they 
rise  from  the  marsh  in  anxious  haste,  seem  only 
desirous  of  escape,  and  are  merely  a  jumble  of 
illy-directed  wings  and  legs ;  but  settled  to 
rhythmic  flight,  their  movements  in  the  upper 
9 


130          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

air  are  extremely  graceful.  Nearest  to  being  a 
blot  upon  the  scene  is  a  too  near  view  of  a 
turkey-buzzard,  particularly  if  it  has  just  gorged 
itself  with  unsavory  food.  Startle  such  a  bird, 
and  its  awkward  effort  to  regain  command  of 
its  wings  is  not  only  suggestive  of  Nature  having 
blundered  in  this  instance,  but  we  are  likely  to 
be  amused  as  well  as  moved  to  pity.  But  when 
this  vulture's  wings  have  conquered  gravity  and 
the  one-time  almost  helpless  creature  passes  into 
the  upper  air,  our  pity  becomes  envy ;  we  do 
not  criticise  now,  but  wonder,  and  how  helpless 
we  feel  ourselves  to  be,  at  least  in  so  far  as  re- 
gards locomotion,  when  we  watch  that  soaring 
vulture  floating,  without  an  effort,  among  the 
clouds. 

The  hooting  of  an  owl  when  we  are  passing, 
it  may  be  in  the  night,  along  some  lonely  wood- 
land path  ;  the  weird  cry  of  the  heron,  its  ghost- 
like, guttural  "whough!"  suddenly  breaking 
upon  our  ears  ;  the  far-away  iteration  of  the 
whippoorwill,  hidden  in  some  leafy  dell ;  the 
shrill,  despairing  cry  of  some  sleeping  bird 
roused  to  sudden  realization  of  danger  and  of 
death, — such  sounds  as  these  may  not  be  ac- 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  131 

counted  musical  as  you  hear  of  them,  but, 
wandering  in  the  wild  wastes,  where  man  has 
not  as  yet  stamped  tameness  upon  Nature's 
breast,  and  such  sounds  will  not  seem  harsh. 
We  do  not  then  stop  to  analyze,  or  even  to 
particularize  ;  but  we  do  realize  that  now  we  are 
face  to  face  with  Nature  in  her  tragic  and  un- 
tamed mood,  and  have  new  impressions  of  the 
great  drama  that  is  being  performed, — a  drama 
of  which  many  know  absolutely  nothing,  or 
know  through  second  hand,  and  so  imperfectly. 
We  cannot  and  ought  not  to  shut  our  eyes  and 
ears  to  tragedy,  for  all  life  has  its  tragic  element. 
If  we  do,  the  world  about  us  can  never  be 
rightly  understood  ;  yet  we  need  not  linger  long 
where  night  gathers  ere  the  day  be  done,  or 
stays  in  stern  defiance  of  the  sun.  Happily, 
there  is  always  a  more  cheerful  path  into  which 
we  may  turn,  a  path  that  has  only  those  features 
which  go  to  the  furthering  of  peace  and  pleas- 
ure ;  where  light,  not  shadow,  greets  us  ;  where 
songs  of  love  replace  the  cries  of  exultation  and 
despair  ;  where,  if  we  desire,  we  may  hear  not 
alone  the  cheery  words  of  my  elm-tree  oriole, 
but  the  gleesome  rejoicing  of  a  happy  host, 


132  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


filling  the  soft  summer  air  with   "  Music,  good 
music,  all  day  !" 

I  like  to  make  positive  statements,  and  hav- 
ing for  more  than  forty  years  studied  the  orni- 
thology of  a  few  acres,  I  am  a  little  surprised 
when  I  am  contradicted  ;  for  I  am  frequently 
informed — not  always  politely — that  some  of 
my  birds  do  not  occur,  except  as  migrants,  in 
the  State,  and  others  that  I  class  as  common 
are  rare  in  my  locality.  It  would  seem  as  if  it 
were  proper  to  shut  our  eyes  to  all  facts  that 
are  not  the  facts  in  common  possession.  Doing 
so,  how  are  we  to  increase  the  sum  of  knowl- 
edge ?  Rose-breasted  grosbeaks  are  common 
where  I  live,  common  to  the  fields,  the  hill-side, 
and  meadows  ;  common  even  to  the  yard  about 
my  house.  They  often  sing  so  near  my  open 
windows  that  the  rooms  are  flooded  with  mel- 
ody ;  inspiring  music  that  drives  our  doubts  to 
the  background  and  fills  the  heart  with  hope. 
This  bird  does  not  whistle  to  keep  his  courage 
up,  but  finding  his  little  world  one  more  of  light 
than  shade,  would  have  all  the  world  to  know 
it.  It  is  no  idle  whim  of  an  idle  fellow  to  assert 
that  the  birds  about  us  teach  many  a  valuable 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  133 

truth,  but,  overestimating  ourselves,  we  turn 
away,  indifferent  to  their  suggestiveness.  Not 
at  all  that  birds  are  intended  to  be  our  teachers, 
but  he  who  neglects  to  profit  by  what  happens 
before  his  eyes — neglecting  it  because  not  within 
the  pale  of  humanity — throws  away  golden  op- 
portunities of  bettering  his  life.  Deaf  to  a 
bird's  song,  he  nurses  many  a  sorrow  that  he 
might  drown,  and  cheats  himself  of  the  soul- 
refreshing  pleasure  of  music  that  is  more  than  a 
concourse  of  sweet  sounds.  The  evening  song 
of  a  thrush,  recalling  other  days  and  making  the 
present  moment  one  of  such  exquisite  pleasure 
that  every  care  in  life  is  for  the  time  forgotten, 
lingers  with  us,  soothing  as  some  magic  balm, 
when  the  skill  of  the  harper  and  voice  of  the 
artiste  have  been  quite  forgotten. 

To  me  it  is  marvellously  strange  that  the 
world  at  large  is  so  utterly  indifferent  to  bird- 
life,  and  that  governments  will  spend  millions 
to  protect  the  seals  of  a  far-distant  sea  and 
never  lift  a  finger  to  stay  the  destroying  hand  of 
a  greedy  few  that  profit  by  the  slaughter  of  our 
native  birds,  the  birds  of  our  door-yards  even, 
selling  the  skins  of  their  victims  to  thoughtless 


134          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

women  who  hope  to  prove  more  attractive  be- 
cause of  a  gaudy  head-gear.  But  what  of  our 
laws  for  the  protection  of  birds?  I  hear  you 
ask, — What  of  them,  indeed  ?  What  is  any  law 
that  by  common  consent  is  looked  upon  as  a 
dead  letter?  Who  ever  troubles  himself  to 
enforce  it,  and  by  what  a  host  of  technicalities 
can  it  be  evaded !  How  common,  too,  to  find 
those  most  interested,  people  living  in  the  coun- 
try, content  with  the  seductive  half-knowledge 
due  to  generalization  from  insufficient  facts,  and 
declaring  war  when  every  condition  of  their 
material  prosperity  calls  for  peace  !  No  birds 
and  a  plague  of  insects, — a  plague  of  insects 
and  the  loss  of  the  harvest  I  would  that  these 
words  were  written  upon  every  guide-post  at 
the  cross-roads  and  hung  upon  the  walls  of 
every  school-house  in  the  land. 

But  it  is  wisdom  on  my  part  to  leave  to  other 
and  abler  hands  this  subject  of  bird  protection. 
Perhaps  I  am  too  prejudiced  in  their  favor. 
The  cunning  of  a  thieving  crow  so  wins  my  ad- 
miration that  I  am  blinded  to  the  financial  as- 
pect of  the  question.  There  is  positive  pleasure 
in  being  cheated  by  a  crow ;  it  so  effectually 


My  Elm-Tree  Oriole.  135 


snubs  our  vanity,  and  we  are  taught  that  in 
some  ways  we  are  not  lords  of  creation.  Too 
often  we  lack  due  consideration  and  crow 
over  our  neighbors,  but  with  good  reason  the 
crows  can  crow  over  us  all.  These  black  ras- 
cals, as  they  are  unfairly  called,  often  take  my 
watermelons  and  I  am  out  of  pocket,  but  not 
altogether  a  loser.  I  have  gained  knowledge 
by  experience  and  more  nearly  realize  what  a 
bird  really  is. 

And  a  word  in  conclusion  as  to  the  bird- 
world's  more  popular  representatives,  and  here 
again  I  leave  their  economic  significance  to  be 
discussed  by  the  professional  ornithologist  I 
know  birds  better  as  musicians  ;  that  is  from 
a  purely  personal  and  selfish  stand-point,  and 
speaking  from  such  I  commend  to  you  these 
birds  whenever  you  are  moved  to  approach 
nearer  to  Nature  and  forget  for  the  time  being 
the  vexations  that  dog  your  steps  as  careworn 
humanity. 

Have  you  heard  the  songs  at  sunrise,  and, 
too,  those  of  a  still  earlier  hour?  Have  you 
been  thrilled  by  the  enthusiasm  that  marks  these 
carols  at  the  birth  of  day?  Have  you  joined 


136  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


with  them,  in  spirit,  and  brought  yourself  to 
believe  as  they  do  that  every  bright,  sunny, 
summer  day  is  the  brightest  and  best  that  ever 
blessed  the  world  ?  To  do  so  is  an  excellent 
safeguard  against  pessimistic  dyspepsia.  And 
as  the  day  wore  on,  have  you  noted  how  the 
exultation  that  was  so  marked  a  feature  at  sun- 
rise has  given  way  almost  to  languor  at  noon- 
tide, but  never  the  sweetness  of  the  song  is 
lost  ?  The  soul  is  ever  present,  but  in  a  weary 
body, — a  body  that  renews  its  vigor  as  the  after- 
noon hours  pass,  and  every  utterance  is  abun- 
dantly reassuring  at  sunset  Bathed  in  the 
golden  light  of  the  setting  sun  and  in  the 
dreamy  purple  tints  and  ghost-like  shadows  of 
the  gloaming,  what  incomparable  sweetness  is 
that  of  the  lingering  few  that  all  reluctantly  bid 
farewell  to  day  !  Having  listened  thus,  from 
dawn  to  dark,  as  I  have  so  often  listened,  there 
is  nothing  but  peace  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
that  followed, — silence,  soothing  as  the  calm 
that  rests  in  summer's  star-lit  skies. 


Short  Summer  Days. 

SHORT  summer  days  that  at  sunrise  give  us  a 
foretaste  of  autumn  are  days  of  both  gladness 
and  sadness.  No  longer  the  enervating  heat, 
but  too  strongly  are  we  reminded  of  the  chill- 
ing breath  of  winter  that  even  now  is  astir  in 
the  north  country ;  but  he  deserves  evil  who 
persistently  anticipates  it.  These  short  summer 
days  are  not  mere  sorry  remnants  of  the  season's 
fulness, — the  scattered  debris  left  by  the  merry 
throng  that  crowded  the  green  world  when  days 
were  long.  If  such  were  the  rambler's  thought, 
his  would  be  a  melancholy  state, — the  tree-tops 
sighing  for  him  in  a  funereal  way  ;  but  away  with 
retrospection  !  The  days  are  short,  but  merit  is 
not  lacking.  The  meadows  yet  are  all  ablaze 
with  brilliant  bloom  ;  purple  ironweed  of  match- 
less hue,  and  golden-rod  that  seems  each  year 
to  be  brighter  than  before  ;  the  dodder,  frag- 
ments of  a  silken  net,  and  rose-mallow,  all  are 


138          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

yet  here  to  contradict  us  when  we  speak  of  the 
summer  nearing  its  close.  The  great  leafy  ban- 
ners and  uplifted  blossoms  of  the  lotus  have 
neither  wilted  nor  turned  pale.  The  freshness 
of  May  is  everywhere.  The  days  may  be  short, 
the  birds  silent,  the  breeze  too  cool  for  comfort, 
but  it  is  not  the  end. 

Where  meadow  brooks  wind  in  and  out 
among  dense  shrubbery,  and  this  overshadowed 
by  tall  and  stately  oaks,  we  occasionally  find  a 
hazel-bush  or  two,  and  to  all  such  as  I  know  of 
I  make  an  annual  pilgrimage  in  September, 
gathering  the  few  nuts  these  bushes  produce. 
There  may  be  many  clumps  of  hazel-bushes  I 
have  never  found.  I  thought  I  knew  this  region 
thoroughly  years  ago,  when  I  was  beginning  to 
study  it.  I  am  wiser  now. 

No  nut  but  is  an  autumn  fruit,  but  no  frost 
has  touched  here  as  yet,  and  I  give  no  thought 
of  what  might  be  when  I  come.  More  than 
one  of  these  clusters  of  hazel-bushes  has  ac- 
quired a  summery  sacredness  now,  and  my  visits 
are  only  made  when  I  am  alone.  The  recol- 
lections of  other  years  must  not  be  interrupted. 
At  least  once  a  year  my  companion  returns  to 


Overshadowed  by  tall  and  stately  oaks. 


Short  Summer  Days.  139 


the  hazels,  and  always  on  the  day  that  I  have 
chosen.  I  see  him,  I  hear  him  ;  we  talk  and 
shout  as  merrily  as  ever,  yet  my  companion 
left  me  forever,  oh,  how  long,  long  ago  !  Had 
frost  and  storm  driven  all  freshness  and  fulness 
from  the  face  of  Nature,  it  would  still  be  sum- 
mer when  I  gather  the  few  hazel-nuts  about 
which  lingers  the  ineffaceable  halo  of  thoughts 
too  deep  for  tears.  Or  I  wander  to  the  lone 
hickories  that  stand  like  patient  sentinels  on  the 
broad  pastures  and  gather  the  few  shellbarks 
that  have  dropped  in  advance  of  the  bidding 
of  frost.  They  smack  of  autumn,  surely  ;  but 
no,  there  is  too  much  freshness  still  remaining. 
The  grass  is  too  green  upon  which  they  fall,  and 
I  do  not  think  of  the  end  that  is  so  near.  Man- 
kind in  general  seems  averse  to  winter,  unless 
his  lot  is  cast  in  some  large  city,  and  so  honestly 
regrets  that  summer  so  soon,  as  it  seems  to  him, 
draws  to  a  close.  It  is  so,  too,  with  those  whose 
happier  lot  is  cast  in  the  country,  and  who,  like 
myself,  love,  as  my  neighbors  call  it,  to  loaf. 
We  loafers,  then,  disliking  any  marked  change 
when  the  world  is  so  suited  to  us,  as  it  is,  fight 
against  the  sobering  thought  of  summer's  end- 


140  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


ing  and  may  do  so  successfully  if  we  keep  in 
certain  paths,  but  a  chance  step  may  defeat  our 
over-brave  conclusions.  It  is  probable  that  be- 
fore the  day  closes  we  will  wander  from  the 
meadow  to  the  creek-side.  If  we  do,  the  whole 
scene  is  likely  to  be  changed  and  our  minds 
changed  with  it.  We  cannot  always  force  our- 
selves to  believe  a  fiction  true,  however  pleasing 
it  may  be.  However  riotous  in  the  realms  of 
fancy,  we  cannot  always  tarry  there,  but  must 
walk  at  times  soberly  and  in  the  presence  of 
plain  facts.  There  are  limitations  even  to  our 
imaginations.  No  one  ever  likens  our  autumn 
foliage  to  a  flower-garden.  It  is  too  pronounced 
a  phase  of  the  passing  year  to  be  compared  with 
other  phenomena,  and  so  it  was  to-day  when  I 
reached  the  wooded  shores  of  a  sluggish,  un- 
known creek.  At  every  turn  I  saw  the  scarlet 
lobelia,  the  torch  that  lights  the  footsteps  of  de- 
parting summer,  and  I  knew  what  these  short- 
ened days  meant  It  was  not  strange  that  birds 
were  not  singing,  that  the  hum  of  insect  life 
was  subdued,  and  even  the  clouds  were  anchored 
in  the  dreamy  skies.  It  is  the  day  after,  with 
nothing  but  reminiscence  filling  each  languid 


Short  Summer  Days.  141 


moment.  However  widely  open  are  our  eyes 
and  ears,  the  gateways  of  the  mind,  we  can  de- 
tect nothing  of  the  activity  of  days  gone  by. 
Scarlet  lobelia  is  the  bloom  of  all  others  cele- 
brating the  achievements  of  the  past,  and  has 
only  hints  of  a  less  glorious  future.  It  is  a  re- 
trospective bloom,  and  not,  like  April  violets,  a 
prophetic  flower.  Need  we  sit  down  by  the 
nearest  river  or  in  the  shade  of  a  Babylonian 
willow  and  weep  because  of  this  ?  I  never 
thought  so.  This  summer  is  not  to  prove  the 
very  last,  and  there  is  more  of  the  world  still 
than  our  senses  can  fully  comprehend.  A  full 
day  is  the  very  opposite  of  an  overcrowded 
one ;  a  day  with  its  single,  all-absorbing  object 
overflows  when  one  that  is  kaleidoscopic  merely 
dazzles  and  is  empty  at  the  last.  And  what 
day  but  has  its  worthy  topic,  be  it  long  or  short  ? 
What  though  the  sun  sets  now  an  hour  sooner 
than  in  midsummer,  it  has  more  than  enough 
daylight  for  the  busiest  brain.  Short,  indeed  ! 
But  might  we  not  more  consistently  worry  over 
our  own  shortcomings,  our  many  limitations,  in 
endeavoring  to  encompass  the  significance  of 
the  shortest  day  ?  Was  it  mere  coincidence,  I 


142          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


wonder,  when,  looking  from  the  scarlet  lobelia 
to  its  reflection  in  the  clear  water  beneath,  I  saw 
many  glistening,  silvery  fishes  playing  about  the 
glowing  stalk  of  bloom,  and  I  remembered  not 
that  they  saw  neither  plant  nor  image,  but  as- 


suming it,  a  bond  between  us  was  established  ? 
Let  us  but  have  some  common  interest  with  the 
simplest  form  of  life,  and  we  will  realize  how 
much  the  least  and  greatest  forms  of  life  have 
in  common.  I  entered  into  the  sports  of  a 
school  of  minnows  so  far  as  to  be  convinced 


Short  Summer  Days.  143 


that  play  was  their  object,  and  not  some  prosy 
effort  to  obtain  food.  I  know  it  is  denied  to 
them,  but  why  should  not  fishes  have  their 
measure  of  pure  enjoyment?  No  angler  of 
experience  ever  called  a  gamy  fish  a  fool. 
That  the  angler  fools  them  is  not  to  the  point. 
How  very  little  we  know  of  our  common  fishes 
beyond  their  anatomy  ;  the  secret  of  their  lives 
from  season  to  season  has  baffled  our  natural- 
ists, and  their  history  has  yet  to  be  written. 
Whether  our  present  ignorance  arises  from  in- 
difference or  the  inability  to  overcome  their 
cunning  at  concealment,  I  do  not  know,  but 
to  scoop  a  dozen  from  the  water  and  give  them 
long  Latin  names  seems  to  have  satisfied  our 
ichthyologists  to  date,  and  yet  the  humblest 
minnow  of  a  weedy  brook  can  readily  con- 
found philosophers.  Happily,  the  day  of  "new 
species"  is  over,  but  that  of  species  new  to  a 
locality  will  continue  to  the  end  of  time.  A 
September  ramble  this  year  may  be  inch  for 
inch  as  last  year  so  far  as  the  paths  you  follow 
are  concerned,  but  there  will  not  be  quite  the 
same  sights  and  sounds.  It  is  the  certainty  of 
this  difference  that  makes  our  strolling  an  un- 


144  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

failing  joy.  Only  those  who  have  had  the  ex- 
perience can  realize  what  a  thrilling  incident  is 
the  finding  of  a  plant  or  animal  that  you  have 
not  found  before.  You  feel  yourself  one  of 
Nature's  favored  ones,  as  if  the  sun  was  shining 
for  you  rather  than  your  neighbor.  Even  the 
possibility  of  such  an  occurrence  or  the  thought 
of  such  a  possibility  is  a  sufficient  incentive  to 
take  a  walk.  Find  a  rare  plant,  and  the  shortest 
day  will  seem  long  because  of  the  fulness  of 
interest  that  crowds  every  hour.  Such  a  dis- 
covery starts  a  train  of  thought  that  is  likely  to 
tax  the  brain,  but  in  a  healthy  way.  How  came 
it  where  you  found  it  ?  Why  never  here  be 
fore  ?  You  may  not  satisfy  yourself,  probably 
will  not,  but  the  whole  plant-world  is  clothed 
with  greater  dignity,  and  just  a  suspicion  of  the 
philosopher  will  cling  to  your  skirts. 

Another  and  more  likely  feature  of  a  stroll  is 
the  finding  of  objects  new  to  yourself,  but 
familiar  enough  to  the  masters  of  science.  This 
should  not  lessen  your  pleasure  one  iota.  The 
rambler  is  concerned  with  himself  and  his  own 
ignorance,  and  no  one  is  so  well  taught  as  the 
self-taught  Let  this  never  be  forgotten.  See 


Short  Summer  Days.  145 


with  your  own  eyes,  and  having  seen,  be  as  firm 
concerning  the  fact  as  is  the  rock-ribbed  earth  ; 
but  be  very  sure  you  see  aright.  Do  not  leave 
the  spot  thinking,  but  knowing.  There  is  a  vast 
difference,  and  time  too  often  allows  the  former 
to  merge  into  the  latter,  and  your  impression 
becomes  a  conviction.  Such  results,  like  pois- 
onous snakes,  are  to  be  avoided,  and  yet  there 
may  be  as  much  disaster  in  allowing  want  of 
self-confidence  to  unmake  you,  and  the  facts 
lose  their  value  treating  them  as  probabilities 
merely.  Much  has  been  lost  to  the  world  in 
consequence  of  this.  There  is  no  setting  apart 
of  a  few  men  who  are  to  be  the  world's  fact- 
determiners.  The  wood-chopper  at  his  work  is 
as  likely  to  see  a  rare  bird  as  the  naturalist  with 
his  gun  and  field-glass.  He  may  not  know 
that  it  is  rare,  but  he  does  know  that  it  is  rare 
to  him  ;  and  woe  betide  the  theorist  who  de- 
clares the  wood-chopper  unfamiliar  with  the 
woods.  That  which  has  been  declared  non- 
existent has  too  often  proved  prevalent  when 
the  unlearned  has  gained  a  hearing. 

The  arrogance  of  learning,    defending  snap 
judgment,  is  a  potent  cause  of  the  continuance 


146          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

of  ignorance.  Only  recently  two  great  names 
clouded  their  reputations  by  talking  authorita- 
tively of  this  neighborhood,  which  one  of  them 
has  never  seen  and  the  other  never  studied. 
Scarcely  a  statement  made  was  correct  in  any 
particular,  but  what  was  spoken  was  sent  over 
the  whole  land  by  the  public  prints,  and  the 
labors  of  those  who  have  bravely  borne  the  heat 
and  burden  of  exploration  goes  for  naught.  It 
does  not  augur  well  for  the  advancement  of 
science  when  men  are  more  given  to  maintain- 
ing the  positions  they  have  taken  on  important 
questions  than  admitting  they  are  mistaken  and 
eager  to  proclaim  the  truth  that  others  have  dis- 
covered. It  is  not  strange  that  the  masses  look 
with  some  suspicion  on  what  is  called  expert 
testimony.  Can  it  be  that  a  life-long  familiarity 
with  simple  conditions  goes  for  nothing,  and 
with  Nature  forever  before  us,  we  shall  die  with- 
out an  inkling  even  of  what  has  been  and  is 
now  occurring  before  our  eyes  ? 

The  shadows  of  the  tall  hickories  in  the 
smooth  meadows  are  creeping  eastward.  A 
purple  mist  is  gathering  along  the  jagged  out- 
line of  the  horizon,  and  one  by  one  the  trees 


Short  Summer  Days.  147 

that  stand  afar  off  are  shut  from  view.  Nearer 
it  comes,  and  the  pastures  fade  away,  and  now, 
as  the  sun  sinks  behind  the  old  oaks  that  line 
the  creek's  wild  shores,  I  stand  alone,  shut  in 
from  all  the  world,  yet  not  alone.  A  crested 
tit,  full  of  faith  as  to  bright  hours  to-morrow, 
whistles  dull  melancholy  to  the  winds  and  hails 
me  as  we  stand  by  the  meadow  gate,  bringing 
a  cheerful  message  as  ever,  arguing,  in  its  own 
sweet,  persuasive  way,  there  is  always  ground  for 
happiness.  Every  bird  is  a  willing  teacher  when 
we  are  anxious  to  be  taught.  An  idle  whim, 
perhaps,  but  I  have  long  held  that  the  crested 
tit  is  a  philosopher,  and  insists  that  we  be  not  so 
intent  upon  what  is  passing  away  that  we  see 
not  that  which  is  coming.  These  are  short 
summer  days,  it  is  true,  but  what  of  the  fulness 
of  approaching  autumn  ? 


An  October  Outing. 

OCTOBER  is  the  charming  prelude  to  the 
stern  tragedy  of  winter.  It  means  a  clear  at- 
mosphere and  colored  leaves,  and  with  them, 
never  to  be  overlooked,  the  screaming  blue-jay 
and  the  fretful  crow.  Better  still  if  a  red-tailed 
hawk  sends  his  shrill  cry  down  to  you  from  the 
depths  of  the  deep  blue  sky.  Frost  has  dulled 
the  golden-rod  and  the  asters  have  lost  their 
freshness,  but  the  grass  is  green,  and  a  snowy 
orchid  on  its  slender  stalk  has  a  goodly  array 
of  pure,  waxy  flowers  that  seem  out  of  place. 
Much  remains  to  the  rambler  for  which  to  be 
thankful,  but  the  month's  chief  glory  is  the  har- 
vest of  nuts.  So  I  have  always  maintained,  and 
with  the  regularity  of  a  religious  fanatic  gone 
expectantly  to  the  nut-trees  to  gather  my  share 
of  the  harvest.  Strangely  enough,  it  is  the  in- 
cidents of  the  journey  to  and  fro  that  I  most 
distinctly  remember,  and  the  goal  is  not  promi- 
148 


An  October  Outing.  149 

nent.  To-day  it  rained  steadily,  yet  I  walked 
as  usual  to  the  shellbark  hickories,  gathering  a 
harvest  as  I  went  of  greater  value  than  the  nuts 
that  whitened  the  closely  cropped  meadow.  I 
saw  many  bluebirds.  It  is  not  long  since  I 
was  told  that  the  bluebird  was  threatened  with 
extinction,  and  one  more  feature  of  the  familiar 
meadows  would  soon  be  but  a  memory.  It  was 
well  worth  exposure  to  a  northeast  rain  to  see 
and  hear  these  birds  again.  They  have  passed 
the  danger  line.  Natural  forces  will  not  prevail 
against  them,  but  what  about  mankind  ?  Is  it 
likely  that  boys  will  be  allowed  toy  guns,  and 
fashion  call  for  blue  feathers  in  bonnet  deco- 
ration ?  The  bluebirds  have  returned,  and  is 
not  this  simple  statement  enough  to  rouse  in- 
terest in  bird  protection  ? 

A  word  here  concerning  their  encouragement. 
Can  we  cultivate  them  as  was  formerly  done? 
My  own  efforts  in  this  direction  have  proved  of 
no  avail  against  the  attacks  of  English  sparrows, 
but  this  is  no  reason  why  our  ingenuity  should 
not  be  further  taxed.  I  will  say  this  much,  that 
the  destruction  of  sparrows'  nests  in  April  seems 
to  so  disturb  the  birds  that  they  quit  the  neigh- 


150          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

borhood  for  the  summer,  and  if  the  bluebirds 
could  be  taught  this  fact,  a  step  in  the  desired 
direction  would  be  taken.  How  far  what  I 
have  been  told  holds  good  I  do  not  know  from 
observation,  but  I  am  assured  that  gourds  hung 
well  up  and  so  fixed  that  they  have  some  motion 


when  perched  upon  will  be  accepted  by  the 
bluebirds  and  purple  martens,  but  sparrows 
will  not  go  near  them,  being  afraid  of  that,  to 
them,  suspicious  swaying  motion.  It  might  be 
thought  by  the  snugly  housed  mortal  that  low- 
lying  meadows  of  a  rainy  day  was  drawing  very 
near  to  the  portals  of  desolation,  and  so  it  is,  if 


An  October  Outing.  151 

you  take  a  telescopic  view  of  them  from  the 
window  next  your  fireside  ;  but  drops  of  water 
are  not  serious  obstacles  to  the  progress  of  an 
earnest  man,  and  what  was  not  shunned  by  the 
bluebirds  that  I  had  no  desire  to  shun.  It 
makes  some  difference  as  to  whom  you  share 
your  discomforts  with,  and  with  birds  as  com- 
panions the  gloomy  aspects  of  creation  are 
fringed  with  rosy  light  The  song  of  the  blue- 
bird is  next  in  merit  to  the  laughter  of  a  friend, 
and  I  should  fear  to  listen  to  sweeter  music  lest 
I  prove  to  have  an  unappreciative  ear.  Then, 
too,  absorbing  attention  on  a  single  object  causes 
us  to  forget  that  we  are  plagued  with  myriads 
of  petty  ills.  I  heard  the  bluebird,  saw  it,  and 
was  oblivious  to  all  else.  The  clogging  infirmi- 
ties of  increasing  years  rolled  off  my  shoulders 
as  surely  as  the  rain-drops  ;  but  do  not,  after 
fifty,  delude  yourself  into  jumping  over  ditches 
without  previous  estimate  of  their  width.  I 
have  heard  more  than  one  man  exclaim  im- 
patiently, "Oh!  I'm  as  young  as  ever,"  and 
jump,  but  he  did  not  reach  the  opposite  bank, 
and  his  day's  ramble  was  spoiled.  Exceptions 
occur,  of  course,  and  old  John  Riker,  at  sixty, 


152  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


outran  a  wing-tipped  snipe,  jumped  two  broad 
ditches,  and  held  on  to  his  gun  while  so  doing ; 
but  then  he  was  a  Dutchman  who  was  more  at 
home  in  a  marsh  than  on  a  board  floor.  Now 
that  I  have  given  up  running,  I  do  not  think 
anything  is  to  be  gained  by  rapid  locomotion. 
Sour  grapes  ?  I  think  not.  This  is  the  same 
meadow,  this  the  same  bluebird,  and  myself, 
almost,  the  same  mortal  of  forty  years  ago. 
What  of  northeast  storms  at  such  a  time  !  My 
little  play  was  more  than  worth  the  candle. 
And  all  this  may  continue  unless  fashion  de- 
mands blue  feathers.  Let  us  hope  the  Audubon 
Societies  will  save  us  from  the  sorrow  of  the 
bluebird's  extinction. 

I  could  not  stand  still  all  the  morning,  and  my 
progress  drove  the  birds  beyond  my  hearing, 
but  my  pleasure  remained,  so  vivid  was  the  re- 
cent meeting.  It  would  have  been  well,  per- 
haps, to  have  gone  directly  home  and  spent  the 
day  in  retrospection  ;  for,  however  near  to  the 
ideal  is  an  outing,  it  is  sure  to  have  a  shadow 
lurking  near  its  sunshine,  and  the  brighter  this 
the  darker  the  other.  I  soon  began  to  notice 
among  the  leafless  trees  and  shrubbery  numbers 


An  October  Outing.  153 

of  unsuspected  nests.  How  my  pride  was  af- 
fected !  All  through  the  early  summer  I  had 
been  boasting.  For  once,  at  least,  I  had  had 
eyes  equal  to  every  occasion.  Nothing  had 
escaped  me,  and  now,  following  a  daily  trodden 
path,  and  sometimes  at  arm's  length,  I  find 
empty  nests,  and  some  of  them  of  birds  that  I 
must  have  overlooked.  How  little  the  fi-eld 
naturalist  really  knows  in  comparison  with  what 
it  is  possible  to  know  !  The  past  summer  was 
the  most  bird-full  I  have  ever  known,  and  every 
nest  I  discovered  fired  my  ambition  to  find  still 
another  and  another,  and  I  hunted  until  the 
field  was  exhausted  Exhausted  ?  Here  are 
several  that  I  did  not  find  when  they  were  oc- 
cupied. Nature  issues  no  bulletins  for  man's 
benefit,  and  the  man  is  not  yet  born  who  can 
keep  track  of  her  activities.  Seeing  a  little,  we 
think  that  little  all.  It  must  be  remembered, 
too,  that  many  nests  are  so  slightly  constructed 
that  they  fall  to  pieces  before  the  onset  of  brisk 
autumnal  gales.  The  many  nests  that  I  found 
some  months  ago  were  but  a  fraction  of  what 
were  built  here  on  the  home  meadows  ;  and 
what  of  the  broad  acres  of  my  several  neigh- 


154          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

bors  ?  I  have  never  seen  a  spot  that  reached 
to  perfection,  in  my  mind,  but  soon  I  found 
that  another  spot  excelled  it.  The  Crosswicks 
marshes  have  been  called  a  birds'  paradise,  but 
there  are  hundreds  of  equally  paradisiacal  areas 
not  far  off,  and  only  the  shadow  of  man's  care- 
lessness prevents  the  sunshine  of  perfection 
being  realized.  Too  many  cry  out  impatiently, 
Who  cares  for  a  chippy-bird  ?  And  the  result 
is  the  keeping  back  of  the  hand  that  could  pre- 
vent the  birds'  destruction.  He  who  cries,  Who 
cares  ?  is  the  world's  worst  enemy. 

The  bluebirds  came  back  when  I  reached 
the  hickories,  and  sang  as  I  gathered  the  scat- 
tered nuts, — a  song  for  every  nut  I  gathered,  so 
it  seemed  ;  and  the  pitiless  rain  was  quite  for- 
gotten. When  the  serious  labor  of  the  day  was 
over,  the  economic  purpose  of  the  outing  ac- 
complished, I  turned  again  to  the  birds,  but 
they  had  gone.  This  is  no  unusual  experience. 
The  song  remains  so  distinctly  that  we  do  not 
mark  the  withdrawal  of  the  singer.  When  this 
happens,  we  have  reached  the  flood-tide  of  ap- 
preciation, the  high-water  mark  of  our  capa- 
bility to  realize  what  a  bird's  song  really  is. 


An  October  Outing.  155 

He  has  deaf  ears  who  finds  it  only  a  pleasant 
but  unsuggestive  sound.  As  we  draw  a  circle 
to  represent  our  globe,  so  a  single  note  of  a 
bluebird  tells  me  the  story  of  the  round  year. 
It  is  again  spring,  with  all  that  the  season  of 
promise  means  to  us  ;  it  is  again  summer,  with 
earth's  goodliest  gifts  before  us  ;  it  is  autumn, 
rich  with  ripened  fruit  and  brilliant  color ;  it  is 
winter,  only  dreary  to  those  who  know  not  what 
this  season  means.  If  danger  still  exists,  let 
Audubon  Societies  everywhere  come  to  the 
bluebird's  rescue.  We  never  exhaust  a  local- 
ity, however  frequently  we  pass  through  it,  yet, 
strangely  enough,  we  assume  this  on  our  return 
from  the  outermost  limit  of  our  walls.  Every- 
thing happens,  so  it  is  recorded  in  the  books, 
when  going  out ;  nothing  when  coming  in. 
This  really  means  that  we  are  wearied  of  sight- 
seeing by  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  long  for 
an  afternoon  nap.  We  lose  about  one-half  of 
our  possibilities  by  giving  way  to  a  desire  to  re- 
turn. Expend  all  your  energy  in  locomotion, 
and  the  world  is  two  blank  walls,  between  which 
you  hurry.  You  can  narrow  the  widest  meadow 
until  it  is  little  better  than  a  prison  cell.  All 


156  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


that  is  needed  is  to  keep  your  eyes  in  the  di- 
rection of  home  and  close  your  ears  to  the 
birds  about  you.  Not  overburdened  with  the 
nuts  I  had  picked  up,  and  with  less  rain  to 
annoy,  I  attempted  cataloguing  the  newly  found 
empty  nests,  and  found  still  others.  Here  was 
severe  snubbing,  for  I  have  always  been  proud 
of  my  powers  of  observation.  I  must  have 
mistaken  for  a  spider's  web,  heavy  with  dust,  a 
nest  of  a  little  flycatcher,  and  a  downy  wood- 
pecker must  have  been  mottled  lichen  only 
when  it  was  cutting  out  a  brand-new  nest  in  a 
little  tree.  Where  were  all  the  cat-birds  when 
I  was  here  in  June  ?  I  trust  to  having  my  eyes 
more  widely  open  in  the  coming  year,  and  my 
ears  more  quick  to  catch  each  passing  note.  I 
have  said  this  before.  But  if  humiliating  to 
take  a  walk  in  October,  it  is  also  instructive.  A 
careful  study  of  empty  nests  in  leafless  trees 
will  teach  us  how  to  look  and  where  to  look 
when  the  nest-building  season  comes  again,  and 
no  one  has  yet  determined  just  how  far  old 
nests  are  utilized  in  the  construction  of  new 
ones.  I  have  known  a  new  nest  to  be  built 
within  three  feet  of  one  of  the  preceding  year, 


An  October  Outing.  157 

and  I  am  positive  not  a  twig  of  the  latter  was 
taken  away  ;  but  old  nests  are  not  always  left  to 
gradually  fall  apart  and  disappear.  The  pretty 
white-footed  mouse  will  rebuild  or  refit  a  cat- 
bird's nest  and  have  a  snug  home  that  defies 
the  winter's  storms  ;  but  an  even  more  enter- 
taining instance  of  reoccupation  is  when  a  big 
gray  spider  lines  with  web  a  chipping-sparrow's 
nest,  and  builds  from  it  a  gauzy  approach.  One 
that  I  found  to-day  had  a  veranda,  a  lawn  of 
gossamer,  "  all  and  singular"  the  features  of  any 
home  of  man,  or  even  moated  castle  of  other 
days  and  lands.  In  no  other  ways  do  I  recall 
the  utilization  of  old  birds' -nests,  but,  even  if 
deserted  by  every  living  creature,  they  never 
lose  their  suggestiveness  until  bit  by  bit  they 
have  been  scattered  by  the  winds. 

It  is  folly  to  spoil  the  day  by  wondering  and 
worrying  about  what  has  not  been  seen.  Let 
the  restful  hours  of  the  evening,  after  an  outing, 
be  given  to  the  better  realization  of  what  has 
been  observed.  That  is  only  half  seen  upon 
which  the  eyes  merely  rested.  Sitting  to-night 
by  the  open  fire,  I  have  only  to  hold  before  me 
a  single  hickory-nut,  and  the  old  trees,  the 


158          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

meadows,  and  the  path  leading  thereto  are  all 
before  me,  and  I  see  with  a  clearer  vision  and 
renewed  delight  that  which  has  been  before  me 
daily  for  these  many  years. 

These  many  years  !  There  could  not  be  a 
more  unfortunate  phrase  come  to  mind,  unless 
we  desire  to  invite  blue  devils.  Every  hero  of 
my  childhood  has  passed  away  and  I  am  classed 
among  old  folks.  It  is  hard  to  realize,  and  out 
of  doors  I  quite  forget  it.  Not  so  before  the 
open  fire.  Every  flame  is  the  epitome  of  an  ill- 
spent  year.  Every  sudden  brightening  of  the 
room  as  a  clearer  light  springs  from  the  fire- 
place is  to  me  the  vivid  recollection  of  blunder- 
ing days.  It  is  so  easy,  afterwards,  to  see  where 
we  were  groping  and  stumbling  in  the  dark, 
and  why.  Light  and  the  need  of  it  do  not 
always  walk  hand  in  hand.  The  glowing  back- 
log is  one  long  panorama  of  the  past,  and  why 
the  pleasures  of  other  days  keep  in  the  back- 
ground is  a  puzzle  to  me.  I  cannot  force  them 
into  prominence.  Blue  devils  have  the  upper 
hand  to-night,  and  have  had  these  many  years. 

These  many  years !  The  victim  of  blue 
devils  is  a  willing  one.  I  will  be  gay  to-night 


An  October  Outing.  1  59 

in  spite  of  them.  Fresh  fuel  may  fright  them 
from  my  little  room.  Many  are  the  big  chunks 
— I  like  this  word  "chunk,"  though  it  finds 
scant  welcome  in  the  dictionary — big  chunks 
of  knotty  wood  that  my  neighbors  had  allowed 
to  remain  wheresoever  chance  had  put  them 
that  I  have  gathered  and  gloried  in  when  they 
crowned  the  pile  of  fagots  in  the  fireplace,  and 
towered  above  the  slender  brass  posts  of  the 
andirons, — household  fixtures  that  link  me  to 
colonial  days.  It  is  all  very  well  for  Americans 
to  sniff  at  genealogical  research,  as  a  good 
many  do,  and  affect  indifference  to  the  facts  of 
their  family  history,  but  just  so  far  I  am  un- 
American,  if  you  choose,  for  I  do  care  a  great 
deal,  and  am  more  proud  of  the  fact  that  I  can 
sit  before  grandmother's  andirons  than  if  I  had 
sold  an  essay  and  bought  a  new  pair.  A  pleas- 
ant thought  is  an  enviable  possession,  and  I 
have  many  such  when  facing  the  open  fire. 
Andirons  now  play  a  new  part ;  they  are  finger- 
posts directing  backward  to  days  when  the  axe 
was  more  important  among  tools  than  it  is  to- 
day ;  for  a  hatchet  will  suffice  among  saplings. 
What  of  the  skilled  wood-choppers  of  other 


160  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


days?  There  are  none  left  in  this  neighbor- 
hood ;  their  ashes  are  mingled  with  those  of  the 
forest.  Anybody  can  hack  a  tree  down,  if  he 
keeps  long  enough  at  it,  but  to  skilfully  fell  an 
old  chestnut  is  another  matter ;  cut  and  split  it  to 
posts,  rails,  fire-wood,  and  fagots  ;  putting  every 
bit  of  it  to  some  use  and  leaving  a  level-topped 
stump  upon  which  you  might  set  the  dishes  for 
your  supper.  This  is  a  lost  art ;  irrecoverable 
perhaps  as  the  marvellous  tales  the  woodmen  of 
the  last  century  told  to  the  children  of  that  day. 
I  wonder  how  much  of  all  they  told  was  true. 
Very  little,  possibly  ;  very  much,  probably  ;  for 
it  is  hard  to  even  imagine  how  a  primeval  forest 
and  its  belongings  could  be  exaggerated. 

The  chunk  upon  the  andirons  to-night  is  from 
somewhere  up  the  river,  brought  down  by  the 
last  freshet  and  left,  very  conveniently,  on  my 
meadows.  There  is  on  it  a  curious  ring-like 
growth,  the  attempt  to  heal  over  where  a  branch 
has  died  and  dropped  off.  An  opening  has 
been  left,  and  looks  so  smooth  at  one  point,  I 
fancy  squirrels  have  been  passing  to  and  fro  for 
many  generations.  My  chunk  is  part  of  an  old 
tree,  that  perhaps,  after  standing  long  near  the 


An  October  Outing.  161 

river-shore,  was  cut  down  at  last  to  make  room 
for  improvements  !  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I 
have  known  an  old  tree  to  be  cut  down  because 
the  vacant  space  was  considered  an  improve- 
ment. If  the  lower  animals  had  been  such 
fools  as  some  men  are,  evolution  would  never 
have  reached  to  the  human  species.  If  trees, 
when  burning,  would  only  sing  a  swan-song  as 
they  turn  to  ashes  !  Something  akin  to  this 
once  happened.  I  placed  a  gnarly  root  on  the 
fire,  and  while  watching,  in  a  dreamy  way,  the 
flames  play  about  it,  there  was  a  sudden  snapping 
and  hissing  that  roused  me,  and  just  in  time. 
The  root  at  one  point  opened  and  untwisted 
and  a  dull  gray  object  was  exposed.  Warped, 
blackened,  and  gaping  wide,  it  proved  to  be  a 
pewter  snuff-box,  in  which  was  a  many-folded 
paper.  This  defied  all  my  efforts  to  save  it ;  but 
I  have  the  box  still,  and  how  often  I  have  won- 
dered as  to  its  history  !  What  a  splendid  basis 
for  a  story  might  have  been  recorded  on  that 
folded  paper,  for  it  was  covered  with  writing  ! 

The  world  is  welcome  to  anthracite  or  cannel 
glowing  in  the  cheerful  grate, — give  me  my 
andirons  and  a  chunk  of  wood. 


A  Northeast  Storm. 

raindrops  should  fall  in  a  very  disagree- 
able manner  is  not  apparent.  Their  single  pur- 
pose is  to  reach  the  ground,  we  presume,  but, 
as  in  many  another  case  where  the  operations 
of  Nature  are  concerned,  do  we  not  presume 
too  much?  Whether  or  not,  northeast  rain- 
drops are  as  different  from  those  of  a  summer 
shower  as  sand  from  swan's-down.  To-day  a 
northeast  storm  prevails,  and  to  study  its  peculi- 
arities is  a  serious  undertaking,  as  every  at- 
tractive feature  of  merely  falling  water  has  been 
eliminated.  In  short,  we  are  brought  face  to 
face  with  tragedy,  and  I  would,  influenced 
wholly  by  my  own  taste,  that  there  was  less  of 
it  in  the  world,  in  our  lives,  and  in  literature. 
Especially  do  I  dislike  to  be  brought  face  to 
face  with  death  and  disaster  when  I  settle  down 
before  the  cheerful  fire  on  the  andirons  and 
open  a  new  book.  There  is  more  than  suf- 
162 


A  Northeast  Storm.  163 

ficient  of  both  entering  into  our  daily  walks  to 
satisfy  us,  and  to  make  sure  of  comfort  I  want 
to  be  moved  to  laughter,  not  to  tears.  No  one 
laughs,  it  is  supposed,  when  facing  a  northeast 
storm,  and  in  November,  too,  when  every  ex- 
pression of  these  melancholy  days  is  given  a 
rising  inflection,  is  emphasized  with  energy,  and 
not  a  puff  of  rain-burdened  wind  but  whispers 
"  Fool !"  as  you  pass  onward.  Why  I  ever  de- 
liberately go  out  of  doors  and  face  such  stormy 
weather  is  not  to  be  explained,  at  least  by  me. 
I  go,  but  I  do  not  know  why.  I  invariably  wish 
that  I  had  not  gone,  but  never  turn  back  until 
some  reasonably  distant  goal  is  reached.  I  do 
not  see  much,  for  every  living  creature  takes 
shelter  now  as  it  never  does  at  any  other  time. 
You  see  but  few  birds,  and  these  not  willing 
wanderers,  and  I  believe  I  never  overtake  a 
meadow-mouse  or  catch  an  out-door  opossum  or 
squirrel.  Other  people  sometimes  do,  of  course. 
All  the  world  is  more  fortunate  than  myself,  but 
a  northeast  storm  is  my  synonyme  for  forsaken 
fields.  The  air,  now,  seems  too  full  of  water  to 
hold  anything  else,  and  such  a  wail  of  utter 
hopelessness  comes  from  the  twiggy  tops  of  the 


164  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


beeches  and  old  oaks  when  the  wind  with  fitful 
fierceness  rushes  through  them.  This  dismal 
moaning  is  enough  of  itself  to  drive  all  wild 
life  to  close  cover,  and  it  seems  to  do  so.  Soli- 
tary crows,  that  folk-lore  says  betoken  sorrow, 
are  the  storm's  most  fitting  attendants, — single 
crows  that  fly  moodily  with  the  wind  and  never 
utter  a  sound  as  they  pass  by.  I  was  prepared 
to  see  this  forlorn  creature  beating  its  way  over 
the  fields,  at  times  swooping  down  as  if  it  would 
clutch  the  earth  and  shake  it,  and  then  rising 
petulantly  above  the  trees  as  if  to  be  beyond 
reach  of  its  old  home  and  stamping-grounds. 

Every  other  bird,  I  supposed,  was  snugly 
housed,  but  herein  I  was  mistaken,  which  fact 
makes  this  my  most  memorable  storm.  It 
would  appear  that  some,  at  least,  of  our  many 
kinds  of  sparrows  do  not  lose  their  appetites  in 
any  weather,  and  where,  to-day,  the  weeds  were 
rankest,  there  I  found  these  birds,  running  like 
mice  along  the  ground,  but  with  no  marked  cur- 
tailment of  flight  power  because  of  the  driving 
rain.  They  knew  very  well  what  prolonged  ex- 
posure meant,  and  so  only  flew  when  necessity 
required  it.  I  was  both  right  and  wrong.  They 


A  Northeast  Storm.  165 


had  sought  shelter,  yet  not  where  the  search  for 
food  was  impracticable,  and  while  not  fearing 
the  rain  took  care  not  to  be  entrapped  by  it. 
Feathers  sometimes  prove  a  leaky  roof.  But  I 
could  not  stand  long  to  catch  uncertain  glimpses 
of  mouse-like  sparrows.  It  is  well  to  keep 
moving  when  out  in  the  rain  ;  the  buffeting  of 
the  storm  falls  less  heavily,  and  birds  in  wet 
weather  are  not  peculiarly  entertaining.  They 
exhibit  no  new  feature  of  their  many-sided 
characters,  and  keep  their  familiar  pleasantries 
as  closely  shut  as  their  feathers.  As  much  as 
butterflies,  birds  belong  to  sunshine  and  the 
rosy  sunrise  hours  of  our  days.  We  think  of 
them  when  flowers  bloom  and  trees  are  in  full 
leaf.  We  are  not  logical  in  so  doing,  to  be 
sure  ;  but  then  logic  and  a  May  morning  are 
ill-suited  companions.  Young  people,  I  have 
heard,  fall  in  love  in  May,  and  where  is  logic  ? 
Too  often  retired  to  shady  groves  to  weep.  A 
truly  philosophical  state  of  mind  leads  to  seek- 
ing out  the  reason  of  the  discomforts  of  a  north- 
east storm  and  not  merely  endeavoring  to  avoid 
them.  And  the  discomforts,  as  we  call  them, 
are  they  such  to  all  animal  life  ?  A  bedraggled, 


166          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

rain-soaked  mouse  is  a  forlorn  object  in  our 
sight.  We  suppose  the  creature  feels  our  dis- 
comforts under  such  conditions,  but  does  it 
really?  One  red  and  black  woolly  caterpillar 
kept  on  its  course,  twisting  in  and  out  among 
little  pools  of  water,  and  did  not  seem  affected 
by  the  pelting  of  rain-drops  to  which  it  was  ex- 
posed ;  but  possibly  it  was  muttering  to  itself 
as  it  went  along ;  growling  as  much  as  I  did. 
How  next  to  nothing  we  know  of  the  mental 
status  of  the  varied  forms  of  life  that  daily  cross 
our  paths  !  Indeed,  can  we  safely  say  that  we 
know  anything  ;  is  it  not  all  inference  on  our 
part? 

If  only  moved  to  the  latter,  why  not  cut  the 
Gordian  knot  by  remaining  in-doors  ?  I  write 
this  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  shudder  at  the 
mention  of  a  pitiless,  cold,  driving  rain-storm, 
when  every  sound  is  to  them  a  sob  and  every 
sudden  increase  of  energy  on  the  part  of  the 
wind  is  accompanied  by  a  piercing  shriek  or 
wail  of  despair.  That  something  of  this  is  a 
figment  of  fancy,  nourished  in  ignorance,  is  cer- 
tainly true.  Not  that  Nature  cannot  be  serious 
and  deal  destruction  with  a  lavish  hand  ;  but,  in 


A  Northeast  Storm.  167 

very  truth,  a  northeast  storm  is  not,  or  very  sel- 
dom, indeed,  found  to  be  much  more  serious  a 
matter  than  when  woman  turns  man's  comfort 
out  of  doors  and  him  along  with  it,  when  clean- 
ing house.  That  is  an  abomination,  comparable 
only  to  a  Western  blizzard  or  some  huge  tidal 
wave  of  the  Pacific.  But,  happily,  just  as  the 
newly  cleaned  house  has  a  freshness  about  it 
that  the  most  crabbed  old  bachelor  is  forced  to 
admit,  so  Nature  wears  a  fresher  face  and  the  air 
is  clearer,  as  with  the  last  drops  of  the  dismal 
storm  comes  a  brightening  of  the  western  sky 
as  the  day  closes.  Even  in  November  this  is 
an  hour  to  be  remembered, — an  hour  of  bril- 
liant color,  of  bird  song,  of  general  rejoicing. 
Even  the  naked  trees  shake  their  gaunt  sides 
and  exult  that  the  northeast  wind  is  a  thing  of 
the  past  and  restful  quiet  is  now  at  hand, — the 
quiet  and  comfort  of  drowsy,  hazy  sunshine, 
where  the  greatest  voluntary  effort  is  to  dream 
of  the  many  gains  and  few  losses  of  the  de- 
parted summer.  It  is  worth  being  all  day  out 
of  doors, — yet  at  the  time  I  never  think  so, — 
however  violent  the  storm,  that  we  may  be  in 
at  its  death  and  mark  the  progress  of  the  new 


168  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


order.  The  gentle,  assuring  breeze  from  the 
west ;  the  splendor  of  the  sunset,  painting  and 
gilding  every  broken  cloud  ;  the  melody  of  the 
brave  birds  that  sing  now  on  their  way  to  their 
roosting  trees  ;  the  deepening  of  the  shadows  ; 
the  fading  out  of  every  trace  of  day  ;  the  soli- 
tary glory  of  the  evening  star ;  the  rising  of 
the  moon  and  reillumination  of  the  earth  and 
sky, — these,  in  quick  succession,  follow  in  the 
track  of  the  storm,  and  gladness  fills  the  world 
that  but  a  few  hours  before  was  desolate  beyond 
endurance.  No,  not  quite  that,  for  however 
wild  the  storm  we  come  out  of  it  unscathed. 
We  think  recklessly  when  it  rains  and  talk  ex- 
travagantly of  another  deluge,  but  why  has 
never  been  explained.  As  my  journals  for 
many  years  attest,  I  have  faced  more  than  a 
hundred  northeast  storms  and  am  yet  alive. 
Just  as  I  called  myself  a  fool  at  the  outset, 
shivering  and  forlorn  as  I  faced  the  wind  and 
rain,  now  that  it  is  all  a  thing  of  the  past,  I  have 
no  regrets  and  call  myself  fortunate.  The 
western  sky  is  one  vast  sheet  of  brilliant  color. 
Warm  reds  and  summery  green  extend  over 
half  the  heavens.  Every  rain-drop  clinging  to 


A  Northeast  Storm.  169 

the  scattered  leaves  adds  its  mite  to  the  sparkling 
outlook,  and  before  me  an  alder,  berry-laden, 
glows  with  a  ruddy  glow  that  pales  even  the 
sunset.  It  is  to  me  the  last  outreaching  flame, 
darting  defiantly  from  the  ashes  of  the  dead 
summer. 


In  Defence  of  Desolation. 

"  HOW  desolate  !"  Such  is  the  common  re- 
mark when  in  late  autumn  or  winter  we  look 
out  of  the  window  on  a  dull,  cloudy,  or  possibly 
rainy  day.  Is  the  asserted  desolation  real  or 
apparent?  To  test  the  merits  of  a  locality, 
choose  the  most  hopelessly  commonplace  cor- 
ner, some  unreclaimed  swampy  bit  that  has  de- 
fied the  farmer,  and,  if  it  proves  too  full  of 
interest  to  be  exhausted  in  one  day's  study, 
where  is  the  asserted  desolation  ?  The  fault  is 
with  ourselves,  not  with  irreclaimable  Nature. 
We  have  persistently  turned  our  backs  upon 
her,  and  so  devoutly  worshipped  the  artificial 
that  much  of  what  is  thoroughly  good  and 
wholesome  is  looked  upon  with  dread  or  indif- 
ference. The  pleasure  asserted  of  the  pathless 
woods  is  also  in  the  trackless  swamps,  and  lurks 
in  the  weedy  corners  of  badly  cultivated  fields. 
To  the  untrained  eye  a  clump  of  bushes  may 
170 


In  Defence  of  Desolation. 


171 


be  as  aimlessly  grouped  as  my  neighbor's  wood- 
pile ;  but  it  is  not  so.  There  is  no  lack  of  pur- 
pose, no  neglect  on  Nature's  part,  and  nothing 
of  weed  or  bush  or  sapling  that  has  not  a 
deeper  significance  than  one  is  likely  to  fathom. 
To  speak  of  desolation  because  green  leaves 


are  lacking  is  the  arrogant  speech  of  ignorance. 
The  truth  is,  without  regard  to  evergreen  trees, 
the  absence  of  green  leaves  is  comparative,  not 
absolute.  I  have  not  yet,  in  forty  years'  wan- 
derings, been  unable  to  find  at  least  one  fresh, 
living  leaf  in  the  course  of  a  morning's  ramble. 


\J2  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


Nature  keeps  up  a  sort  of  guerilla  warfare  with 
winter  long  after  her  main  army  has  been  de- 
feated, and  brave  weeds  find  safe  retreats  and 
flourish  unmolested  in  neglected  nooks  to  which 
attention  is  never  directed  ;  and  so,  casting  a 
careless  glance  over  the  fields  and  forest,  we 
exclaim,  in  our  ignorance,  how  desolate  ! 

The  million  lances  of  the  thistle  may  avail 
nothing  against  the  legions  of  frost ;  but  it 
would  not  seem  so,  for  here,  long  after  the  grass 
is  wilted  and  brown,  a  blooming  thistle  lifts  its 
purple  plumes  and  invites  the  goldfinch,  now  in 
late  autumn,  just  as  it  did  in  the  steamy  hot 
sunny  August  afternoons.  This  is  an  encour- 
agement surely  to  go  deeper  into  the  asserted 
desolation  of  the  day.  The  goldfinch  is  no 
stranger  even  in  midwinter,  but  when  Christmas 
is  not  far  off  you  do  not  expect  to  find  him  on 
a  blooming  thistle  ;  yet  one  was  thus  found  to- 
day, in  mid-November. 

Perhaps  it  was  when  the  glaciers  still  rested  on 
our  nearest  hill-sides  that  the  ancestral  crested 
tit  looked  out  upon  the  sunshine  of  a  bright 
May  morning,  and  in  the  exuberance  of  its  joy 
whistled,  Sweet  here.  Whatever  the  truth,  this 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          173 

prince  of  cheerfulness  has  never  changed  its 
tune,  and  no  storm,  not  even  midwinter's  great- 
est effort,  ever  shut  out  the  sunshine  in  this  wee 
bird's  heart  It  never  admits  the  supremacy  of 
gloom,  and  finds  beauty  and  content  when  we 
are  mourning  over  the  desolation  wrought  by 
frost.  Not  even  the  forest,  now  gloomier  than 
the  field,  is  too  dreary  for  him,  and  that  assur- 
ing Sweet  here  was  not  mockery,  but  a  light- 
giving  song  that  lifted  the  cloud. 

There  is  no  other  bird  that  has  the  same 
awakening  power.  To-day  the  cardinal,  that  has 
for  a  time  been  silent  and  moping  in  the  denser 
underbrush,  came  from  his  hiding,  echoed  the 
tit's  emphatic  words,  and  added  many  another. 
"  Clouds  and  bare  branches  do  not  ruin  the 
world"  is  the  theme  of  his  November  song,  and 
what  the  hill-side  lacks  in  sunshine  is  made  good 
by  the  brilliant  glow  of  his  crimson  coat.  He 
is  a  pessimist  indeed  who  can  find  the  world 
askew  when  such  birds  are  singing. 

I  had  not  passed  through  the  garden  before 
I  had  seen  and  heard  three  singing  birds,  and 
now  at  the  stile  I  was  greeted  by  the  Carolina 
wren.  If  possible,  it  was  more  desolate  under 


174          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

the  old  oaks  than  in  the  meadows,  for  the  leaf- 
less branches  are  so  many  and  interlaced,  they 
shut  out  the  light.  On  a  dark  day,  to  go  into 
the  woods  is  like  passing  from  the  gloaming  to 
night ;  yet  here,  facing  a  forbidding  east  wind, 
the  Carolina  wren  was  singing.  Not  humming 
to  itself  to  rouse  the  memory  of  brighter  days, 
but  a  whole-souled  declaration  of  content,  though 
the  sky  was  gray  and  an  east  wind  muttered 
vengeance  as  it  hurried  by.  I  hear  this  bird  all 
the  year  through.  It  is  my  daily  companion, 
and  never  a  thought  of  desolation  when  it  is 
singing  at  my  elbow.  There  is  no  desolation. 
Looking  at  the  world  from  the  library  window, 
seeing  nothing  and  hearing  less,  what  right  have 
we  to  be  so  critical  of  Nature's  methods  ?  The 
browns  of  autumn  make  the  greens  of  spring 
less  tiresome,  and  when  many  birds,  or  even  one, 
can  be  as  cheerful  as  a  Carolina  wren,  although 
every  feature  of  the  day  be  forbidding,  why 
should  mankind  declaim  against  the  desolation 
of  the  outlook?  It  is  infinitely  better  to  be 
warmed  by  the  assuring  songs  of  a  bird  than  to 
hover  over  the  register  of  a  stuffy  room.  No- 
vember fogs,  east  winds,  clouded  skies  !  Go 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          175 

out  and  hear  what  the  birds  say  of  them,  and 
you  will  find  the  world  less  black  than  you  had 
painted  it. 

Even  the  little  brown  tree-creeper  does  not 
feel  necessitated  to  keep  on  the  leeward  side  of 
the  tree-trunks,  though  wind  and  snow  and  even 
hail  conspire  to  dislodge  it  It  squeaks  its  sat- 
isfaction, and  while  it  held  on,  though  a  stiff 
breeze  was  blowing,  I  saw  the  plucky  bird  draw 
a  worm  from  a  cranny  in  the  bark  :  swallowing 
its  prey,  it  snapped  its  beady  eyes  at  me  and 
squeaked  a  suggestive  "  Good-morning"  as  it 
hurried  away.  That  bird  never  missed  the  sun- 
shine. The  day  was  not  so  bad  that  it  might 
not  be  worse  ;  and  if  birds  are  satisfied,  why 
not  ourselves  ? 

A  dead  tree,  stricken  in  its  prime  by  lightning, 
is  as  nearly  typical  of  desolation  as  any  object 
I  have  ever  seen.  I  will  never  believe  that  such 
things  ought  to  be.  But  the  dead  and  decaying 
hickory  gave  rise  to  fewer  gloomy  thoughts 
when  a  woodpecker  came  and  beat  in  a  rhyth- 
mic way  that  was  akin  to  music.  Mere  noise, 
perhaps  you  insist ;  but  there  is  method  in  it, 
something  lacking  at  times  in  in-door  chatter. 


176  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


A  red-headed  woodpecker  in  November,  and 
cloudy  at  that,  is  equal  to  half  a  dozen  sun- 
beams. It  will  penetrate  the  gloom  to  that  ex- 
tent, and  send  desolation  a  little  deeper  into  the 
beyond. 

Six  birds  already,  and  my  walk  has  just  com- 
menced. There  is  yet  a  trace  of  youthful  vigor 
left.  I  always  jump  from  the  top  step  of  the 
stile ;  not  always  gracefully,  I  admit ;  and, 
tripping  this  time,  I  shook  the  near  earth  as  I 
sprawled  in  the  briers.  Bob  White  went  off 
with  a  whirr  as  if  I  was  some  blundering  sports- 
man ;  and  I  had  not  picked  a  tenth  of  the 
desmodium  and  bidens  seeds  from  my  clothing 
before  another  and  another  went  whizzing  off 
to  my  neighbor's  sproutland,  whither  I  too  was 
bound.  Could  a  field  in  November  be  sud- 
denly shorn  of  its  weeds,  what  a  wealth  of  wild 
life  would  be  exposed  !  Looking  across  country, 
it  is  by  mere  chance  we  see  any  bird,  and  very 
seldom  life  of  any  other  form.  Birds  can  see 
us  when  we  cannot  see  them  ;  probably,  while  I 
was  yet  several  rods  away,  a  skulking  woodcock 
knew  of  my  approach.  Quail  and  woodcock  ! 
I  did  not  smack  my  lips  over  them  as  mere 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          177 

"  gobbets  of  venison,"  but  snapped  my  eyes 
thankfully  at  them  for  aiding  so  materially  in 
disproving  the  assertion  that  cloudy,  storm- 
threatening  autumn  days  are  desolate. 

The  day  was  darkening,  but  I  was  not  de- 
terred. Turning  towards  the  marshy  meadows, 
I  startled  a  whippoorwill,  some  straggler,  linger- 
ing a  full  two  months  after  all  his  brethren  had 
sought  the  sunnier  climes  of  the  Gulf  States  ; 
but  let  no  straggling,  over-staying  bird  surprise 
you.  As  I  know  from  careful  examination,  in- 
sect life  has  not  been  lacking  until  now,  and  if 
it  was  a  matter  of  food  only,  there  has  been  no 
reason  why  all  our  whippoorwills  should  not 
have  eaten  their  Thanksgiving  dinners  with  us. 

On  the  wide  stretch  of  marshy  meadows  the 
outlook  is  at  first  forbidding,  more  so  than  on  the 
upland  fields  or  the  wooded  hill-side  ;  but  it  is 
necessary  only  to  accommodate  oneself  to  the 
new  surroundings  to  be  assured  that  chaos  has 
not  come  again  because  of  your  standing  on  a 
marshy  meadow,  with  threatening  clouds  over- 
head and  a  fierce  east  wind  blowing.  It  is  Na- 
ture in  a  savage  mood,  but  this  has  naught  to 
do  with  desolation.  I  gave  no  further  heed  to 


178          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


the  conditions  in  general  when  I  saw,  still  in- 
tact, a  massive  globular  nest  of  the  marsh-wren. 
It  is  too  late  for  the  birds  themselves,  for  they 
have  no  liking  for  Nature  under  the  new  order 
of  things,  when  frost  is  stage  manager. 

You  stand  in  such  dreary  places  as  a  marshy 
meadow,  and  wonder  why  you  came.  With  only 
dead  vegetation  about  you,  it  is  not  strange  ; 
but  such  feelings  vanish  when  one  by  one  the 
lurking  life  begins  to  grow  restive,  and  your  at- 
tention is  called,  now  this  way,  now  that ;  to  the 
pool  in  the  marsh  in  front  of  you,  to  the  tan- 
gle of  wilted  rose-mallow  or  great,  gray,  wilted 
leaves  of  the  classic  lotus  at  one  side,  or  to  the 
leaden  sky  above  that  seems  so  low  down  you 
are  oppressed  by  its  nearness.  A  marsh-owl 
with  a  mouse  in  its  talons  may  rise  up  as  silently 
as  any  ghost  at  midnight,  and,  alighting  on 
some  projecting  stake,  proceed  to  devour  it, 
quite  unconcerned  by  your  presence.  At  least, 
this  may  happen  if  you  are  equal  to  standing 
as  rigidly  as  a  fence-post  ;  and  this  is  not  so 
very  difficult  if  your  attention  is  drawn  to  any 
occurrence  that  interests  you.  The  day  being 
dark,  it  is  possible  that  the  barn-owl,  living  in 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          179 

the  cavernous  hollow  of  an  old  tree,  may  be 
tempted  to  come  out, — and  a  splendid  fellow  he 
is ;  or  if  not  abroad,  he  may  be  sitting  at  the 
doorway  of  his  home,  enjoying  the  sunless  pros- 
pect, and  thankful  that  the  glaring  sunshine  is 
this  day  spared  him.  If  not  so  fortunate  as  to 
see  this  noble  owl,  he  can  be  searched  for  and 
routed  out,  if  adventure  so  far  moves  you  ;  but 
this  I  never  advise. 

Owls  seem  nearer  to  Nature  than  do  other 
birds.  There  is  an  air  of  mystery  about  them 
that  rouses  our  interest.  We  ask  ourselves 
more  questions  when  brought  face  to  face  with 
an  owl  than  we  do  in  the  case  of  any  other  bird. 
Theirs  is  no  meaningless  stare.  They  can  look 
us  out  of  countenance,  and  put  as  much  in- 
telligence into  their  eyes  as  we  can  in  ours. 

There  is  some  reason  for  calling  the  owl  the 
bird  of  wisdom ;  and  yet  there  is  cause  for 
wondering  if  the  crow  is  not  mentally  his  su- 
perior. Crows  are  not  disheartened  by  the 
gloom  of  late  autumn.  If  the  fog  is  too  dense 
to  fly  through  it,  they  rise  above  it  or  trot  about 
the  ground,  discussing  the  situation  with  their 
fellows.  Is  this  speaking  too  positively?  I 


180  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


have  long  been  familiar  with  an  observing  man 
who  has  lived  all  his  days  within  sight  and  hear- 
ing of  crows.  He  claims  to  understand  their 
language,  and  can  repeat  the  "words"  that 
make  up  their  vocabulary.  Certainly  crows 
seem  to  talk ;  but  do  they  ?  Does  a  certain 
sound  made  by  them  have  always  the  one  sig- 
nificance ?  Year  after  year  I  have  listened  and 
watched,  watched  and  listened,  and  wondered 
if  my  friend  was  right.  He  believes  it.  I  be- 
lieve it  almost.  Are  there  limitations  to  orni- 
thological interpretation?  And  is  this  an  in- 
stance where  truth  is  unattainable  ?  We  know 
that  crows  are  cunning,  and  by  their  mother  wit 
have  withstood  the  persecutions  of  mankind  ; 
we  know  that  they  have  a  wide  range  of  utter- 
ances, and  not  one  is  put  forth  merely  to  gratify 
the  ear,  as  in  the  case  of  a  thrush's  song ;  yet 
we  hesitate  to  say  plainly  that  crow  talketh 
unto  crow  and  that  they  take  counsel  together. 
There  is  no  physical  or  metaphysical  reason 
why  this  should  not  be  the  case ;  there  is 
abundant  evidence  pointing  in  that  direction, 
but  no  actual  demonstration,  satisfying  every 
one,  has  taken  place.  Were  we  less  theory- 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          181 

ridden  and  more  observant,  the  question  would 
have  been  settled  before  this.  In  such  a  case, 
the  opinion  of  the  farmer  is  worth  more  than 
that  of  the  professional  ornithologist 

A  crow,  black  as  night,  might  seem  a  fitting 
accompaniment  of  a  dreary  day  and  desolate 
outlook  ;  but  what  of  the  great  flocks  of  rusty 
grakles  and  of  cow-birds  ?  Neither  is  really 
black,  but  both  appear  so  as  they  rise  from  the 
marsh  and  drift  like  dead  leaves  before  the 
wind,  perhaps  to  sink  out  of  sight  in  the  dead 
grass,  or,  gathering  in  the  near-by  trees,  chirp, 
splutter,  and  gurgle  in  a  strange  yet  not  un- 
musical way.  These  are  northern  grakles  that 
are  now  southward  bound,  and  quite  different 
from  their  purple,  boat-tailed  cousins  that  were 
here  all  summer.  The  cow-birds  are  not  migra- 
tory, strictly  speaking,  but  will  come  and  go  all 
through  the  winter; — curious  birds,  uncertain 
in  all  their  ways,  and  fitting  into  no  scheme  of 
well-regulated  communities.  Building  no  nests 
and  never  mating,  what  can  we  expect  of  them  ? 
Yet  their  presence  to-day  is  more  than  welcome. 
However  desolate  in  appearance,  the  world  is 
not  deserted. 


182  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

Without  moving  from  the  spot  at  which  I 
have  been  standing  this  half-hour,  by  a  mere 
upraising  of  my  eyes  I  can  see  an  eagle  perched 
on  the  tall  dead  sassafras  near  the  river-shore  ; 
a  black  hawk  nearer  by,  intent  upon  the  shallow 
waters  directly  beneath  where  it  is  perched  ; 
and  a  broad-winged  buzzard,  hovering  over  a 
hassock  where  a  meadow-mouse  is  lurking, 
helpless  perhaps  from  fear,  knowing  well  the 
enemy  that  is  so  swift  and  sure  when  it  does 
strike.  But  not  every  swooping  falcon  rises 
from  the  earth  with  prey.  The  dim  light  of  a 
cloudy  November  afternoon  might  be  some  ex- 
cuse for  failure,  but  even  when  light  and  wind 
and  all  else  is  favorable,  it  is  never  so  much  as 
fifty  out  of  a  possible  hundred.  Many  a  time 
I  have  seen  a  hawk  pounce  and  pounce  again, 
and  then  fly  away  with  a  shrill  scream,  clearly 
indicative  of  its  intense  disgust. 

The  frost  and  thin  ice  at  times  have  driven 
away  much  of  the  bird-life  of  these  wide-spread 
marshes.  The  redwings  have  gone,  the  reed- 
birds  disappeared,  and  the  swamp -sparrows 
have  wandered  to  more  sheltered  spots,  but  the 
reeds  and  cat-tail  are  not  deserted.  If  we 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          183 

watch  the  bared  areas  of  mud,  now  that  it  is  low 
tide,  we  will  surely  see  the  common  sora,  or  rail, 
and  not  improbably  the  Virginia  rail.  Occasion- 
ally the  latter  remains  all  winter,  and  the  sora  is 
often  forced  to  do  so  because  of  slight  gun-shot 
wounds  that  prevent  migration  ;  but  such  birds 
do  not,  I  think,  survive  the  winter.  Many  are 
caught  by  the  hawks,  and  some  fall  victims  to  the 
sly  snapping-turtle  and  to  pike,  before  the  gen- 
eral freeze-up  ;  others  succumb  to  intense  cold. 
What  I  have  warrant  to  expect  seeing,  before 
the  day  is  done,  is  the  great  blue  heron  ;  and  to 
start  up  the  delicate  least  bittern  is  not  improb- 
able. The  heron  is  not  shy,  and  too  big,  one 
might  think,  to  conceal  itself,  yet  it  can  stand 
motionless  among  sticks  and  grass,  quite  invis- 
ible to  any  but  a  well-trained  eye.  Taking  up  a 
new  position,  as  I  supposed,  I  flush  a  heron  from 
the  willow  hedge  :  how  the  big  bird  brightens 
the  landscape  !  It  utters  no  wild  yawp,  as  if 
badly  frightened,  but  moves  easily  at  a  slight 
elevation,  and  would  again  alight,  but  some- 
thing again  disturbs  it,  and  now  it  rises  into  the 
upper  air  by  a  few  rapid  and  very  vigorous 
wing-strokes.  Its  long  legs  no  longer  are  an 


184  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

encumbrance,  as  they  at  first  appear  to  be,  but 
are  fixed  in  an  outreaching  position  and  offer 
no  resistance  to  the  bird's  progress.  The  old 
days  of  the  peregrine  falcon  are  no  more,  and 
the  bird  here  has  no  enemies.  The  bald  eagle 
that  was  recently  in  sight  might  prove  a  dan- 
gerous foe  were  it  so  disposed,  but  it  cares  for 
fish  and  mammals  more  than  birds,  and  I  have 
never  seen  one  attack  a  heron  or  any  bird  on 
these  meadows.  Negative  evidence,  of  course, 
and  of  less  significance  because  eagles  are  rare 
now,  and  herons  not  so  abundant  as  forty  years 
ago.  The  indifference  of  farmers,  and  that 
abuse  of  freedom,  allowing  anybody  and  every- 
body to  carry  a  gun  at  all  seasons,  has  done  its 
deadly  work.  Where  there  should  be  a  hundred 
birds  we  are  fortunate  now  if  we  see  ten.  Time 
was  when  there  were  herons  and  heronries  and 
stately  white  egrets  along  the  river-shore,  and 
the  creeks  teemed  with  wild  fowl  in  season. 
It  is  a  cause  to  be  thankful,  to-day,  that  the 
heron,  a  single  heron,  has  given  to  this  dismal 
day  the  charm  of  its  presence,  and  so  added  to 
the  evidence  that  the  exclamation,  "  How  deso- 
late !"  was  not  merited. 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          185 

I  grant  that  deserted  Nature  may  be  desolate. 
An  arid  desert,  with  no  life  upon  it  except 
scorpions  and  spiders,  may  be  the  climax  of 
desolation  ;  but  no  such  conditions  obtain  here. 
Even  if  the  storms,  with  all  possible  accessories 
of  discomfort,  beat  upon  us,  there  is  a  resisting 
energy  in  the  wild  life  that  has  wisely  chosen 
these  marshes  as  its  home.  Discomfort  for  the 
day  is  far  removed  from  desolation  ;  and  if  you 
persist  in  calling  it  such,  then  let  me  argue  in 
its  defence.  Dark,  dismal  days,  such  as  this, 
are  really  pleasing  by  way  of  variety.  Already 
I  have  seen  many  birds,  when  the  outlook  from 
the  hill-top  was  anything  but  assuring  ;  but  then 
there  was  the  goldfinch  almost  at  my  door,  and 
the  crested  tit  announcing  "All's  right!"  be- 
fore I  had  gone  a  dozen  rods.  Through  the 
window,  desolate,  perhaps ;  but  what  of  a  closer 
inspection  ?  It  is  ever  so. 

There  is  yet  an  hour  before  sunset,  but  no 
ruddy  light  will  illuminate  the  wide-reaching 
marsh.  Night  will  quickly  come,  but  here  is 
the  winding  creek,  forsaken  now  by  trapper  and 
fisherman.  The  wind  foretells  the  rain  in  no 
uncertain  terms,  and  even  these  hardy  men 


186          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

care  much  for  the  comforts  of  a  shelter.  They 
know  that  the  autumn  flight  of  wild-fowl  has 
taken  place.  They  know  that  the  little  pools 
and  winding  brooks  that  drain  the  meadows 
are  likely  to  be  visited  by  pintail  ducks  and 
widgeon,  and  that  now  the  home-bred  sum- 
mer ducks  are  hobnobbing  in  the  marsh  with 
their  cousins  from  the  up-country.  The  gunner 
knows  this,  but  it  is  going  to  rain,  and  not 
for  ducks  will  he  get  wet.  They  will  not  pass 
away  with  the  storm,  he  thinks. 

Perhaps  not,  but  I  will  not  risk  it.  The 
greater  my  triumph,  the  more  I  see,  and  so 
prove  the  day  not  empty,  the  country  not  deso- 
late. Here,  as  I  expected,  I  startle  widgeon 
from  the  wilted  cat-tails,  and  the  pintail  ducks, 
taking  warning,  rise  with  a  clatter  into  the  air, 
without  knowing  what  the  danger  may  be. 
They  are  all  gone,  and  the  cold,  glittering 
reaches  of  old  Crosswicks  are  forbidding.  The 
storm  is  too  near  for  comfort  I  admit,  yet  sight- 
seeing is  not  at  an  end.  Almost  at  my  feet,  as 
I  stand  on  the  bank  of  the  little  river,  is  a  coot 
that  floats  as  lightly  as  a  cork,  and  holds  its 
head  as  erect  as  a  June  rose  in  the  sunshine. 


In  Defence  of  Desolation.          187 

The  world  is  not  wrong  with  it.  If  the  waters 
are  a  bit  troubled  by  the  wind,  a  little  more 
care  is  needed  perhaps  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  Its 
feathers  are  comparatively  storm-proof,  and 
there  is  always  quiet  underneath  the  waves. 
The  commotion  made  life  merrier  for  the  coot, 
as  a  bit  of  excitement  adds  a  healthy  pulse-beat 
to  our  sluggish  selves. 

But  I  must  hurry  away  :  the  darkness  means 
a  great  deal  if  it  overtakes  you  on  the  marsh. 
I  give  another  searching  glance  at  the  wind- 
tossed  water  as  I  turn  from  it.  There,  for  the 
first,  I  see  a  little  brown  dab-chick,  a  distant 
cousin  of  the  coot's,  and  just  as  happy  as  that 
strange  bird.  It  dived  as  I  saw  it,  but  immedi- 
ately reappeared,  and  I  waved  it  a  good-by. 

I  might  have  accepted  my  friend's  dictum, 
moped  in  front  of  the  andirons,  and  believed 
the  world  desolate.  How  unfair  would  I  then 
have  proved  to  myself  and  to  the  commonplace 
corner  in  which  my  lot  is  cast !  A  cloudy  sky, 
a  cold  east  wind,  a  chill  that  reaches  to  the 
bone,  and  patches  of  moisture-laden  fog  may 
all  be  present ;  the  leafless  trees  may  look  all 
forlorn  and  not  a  sound  reach  you  as  you  look 


i88  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


from  the  window  ;  but  plunge  into  these  ele- 
ments of  discomfort,  accept  no  other  than 
your  impressions  after  close  contact,  and  you 
will  be  moved  to  admit  that  only  upon  the 
failure  of  a  thousand  happenings,  and  a  deeper 
blackness  settling  over  the  outlook  than  ever 
did,  will  you  be  justified  in  exclaiming,  even  as 
you  survey  the  world  from  a  window,  "  How 
desolate  !" 


A  Very  Old  Milestone. 

ALMOST  in  the  middle  of  a  neglected  field, 
mottled  with  parti-colored  pebbles  in  winter 
and  green  during  summer,  when  the  dewberry 
vines  run  riot  over  the  glacial  drift, — here,  half 
a  mile  from  any  public  road,  I  recently  un- 
earthed a  very  old  milestone,  when  and  by 
whom  set  up  nobody  living  knew.  A  know- 
ledge of  it  came  to  me  as  an  Indian  idol,  and  so 
it  was  hunted  up,  the  frozen  earth  removed,  and 
the  relic  recovered.  Closer  examination  proved 
it  to  be  a  flat,  frost-split  slab  of  slaty  stone,  with 
S.  M.  still  decipherable  upon  one  side,  and  a 
few  dents  and  short  lines  that  I  cannot  demon- 
strate ever  meant  anything.  In  proportion  to 
their  ignorance,  the  idle  element  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, standing  about,  assumed  to  be  pro- 
ficient in  antiquarian  lore,  and  took  it  unkindly 
when  called  fools.  Had  I  been  blind  I  might 
have  imagined  the  ghosts  of  the  colonists  of 

189 


190          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

two  centuries  ago  were  all  babbling  at  once. 
The  poor  old  resurrected  milestone  had  no 
chance  to  be  heard  where  it  was,  so  I  took  it 
home,  and  am  thankful  that  my  door-yard  is  far 
too  wide  for  the  neighbors  to  look  across  it 
Here  both  the  milestone  and  myself  are  rest- 
ing in  peace,  the  latter  standing  boldly  out  in 
the  winter  sunshine,  and  now  a  milestone  once 
more,  but  only  indicating  how  far  in  the  distant 
past  is  the  old  township  of  Nottingham  of  two 
centuries  ago. 

First,  the  Indian  trail,  and  how  long  every 
journey  must  have  seemed  when  threading  the 
deep,  dark  woods  from  which  dangerous  foes 
might  at  any  time  appear !  for  these  were  the 
days  of  the  lurking  cougar,  the  most  dangerous 
of  animals  since  the  time  when  the  Ice  Age 
hunter  contended  vainly  with  angered  masto- 
dons. The  references  to  the  cougar  in  colonial 
documents  are  few  and  unsatisfactory,  yet  these 
fierce  creatures  lingered  here  long  after  Euro- 
pean occupation  of  the  country,  and  certainly 
before  then  were  not  rare,  if  we  may  judge 
from  the  traces  of  them  found  in  the  ashes  of 
the  earlier  Indian  village  sites.  Among  these 


A  Very  Old  Milestone.  191 


I  recall  a  curiously  fashioned  fragment  of  a 
lower  jaw,  with  the  teeth  in  place,  the  purpose 
evidently  being  that  of  an  ornament.  Teeth 
and  claws  of  bears  are  still  popular  with  the 
untamed  red  man,  and  this  bit  of  a  cougar's 
jaw  told  the  same  story.  I  have  seen,  too,  a 
rude  etching  on  a  slate  that  seemed  to  be  in- 
tended for  this  animal, — one  of  the  few  inscribed 
stones  which  could  not  be  held  in  suspicion,  not 
passing  through  too  many  hands  before  reaching 
an  archaeologist 

Peter  Kalm  makes  no  reference  to  the  cougar, 
and  yet  it  was  still  roaming  through  South  Jersey 
even  at  the  time  of  his  visit,  1749,  but,  pre- 
sumably, of  rare  occurrence. 

After  the  trail,  a  bridle-path,  or,  more  cor- 
rectly, the  one  became  the  other,  through  the 
same  boundless  forest,  extending  as  it  did  from 
the  river  to  the  ocean.  It  was  available,  as  a 
path,  for  a  horse  and  its  rider  only,  and  some 
years  elapsed  before  it  was  widened  and  became 
a  roadway  for  carts.  Here  documentary  evi- 
dence helps  us  a  little.  The  cart-road  in  time 
became  a  highway  that  permitted  the  use  of 
four-wheeled  vehicles,  but  it  was  still  a  twisting, 


192  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


turning,  serpentine  route,  following  the  same 
lines  that  the  Indians  had  found,  those  of  least 
resistance  to  foot  travel.  Then  came  the  new, 
direct  roads  from  town  to  town,  and  the  ap- 
proximately geometric  marking  of  farm  boun- 
daries. From  the  Indian  trail  to  the  bicycle- 


path  seems  an  indefinitely  long  time,  but  there 
are  people  living  who  have  seen  one-half  of  it 
My  recovered  milestone  faced  the  storms,  but 
saw  little  of  the  sunshine  of  more  than  one-half 
of  the  last  two  centuries.  The  forest  was  too 
dense  for  even  summer  sunbeams  to  penetrate. 


A  Very  Old  Milestone.  193 

It  is  a  little  difficult  to  realize  now,  when 
practically  all  the  one-time  natural  features  of 
the  region  have  been  removed,  that  our  public 
roads,  as  they  now  are,  did  not  spring  at  once 
into  existence  at  the  command  of  the  surveyor. 
Some  of  them  did,  but  the  main  thoroughfares, 
the  old-time  roads,  grew  into  being  very  gradu- 
ally, and,  time-honored,  should  not  their  old 
name  of  "road*'  be  retained?  What  sickly 
sentimentality  that  changes  it  to  "  avenue,"  as 
we  find  the  case  in  many  a  city  !  Now,  the 
pedestrian's  highway  is  the  winding  foot-path 
along  the  hill-side,  with  an  old  worm-fence  on 
one  side  and  a  respectable  wood  on  the  other. 
This  is  the  squirrel's  and  chipmunk's  highway 
also,  so  one  is  pretty  sure  of  lively  company,  or 
if  this  is  too  remote,  the  pedestrian  can  take  the 
"back  road,"  or  that  most  remote  from  the 
popular  lines  of  travel ;  a  deep  sandy  road 
that  defies  the  bicycle  and  so  leaves  the  foot- 
passenger  happy.  May  such  roads  long  con- 
tinue !  Pay  the  supervisor  his  salary,  but  pray 
him  not  to  earn  it.  If  only  as  a  prostrate  mon- 
ument to  good  old  times,  let  us  have  here  and 
there  a  road  such  as  suited  our  easy-going 
13 


1Q4          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


grandfathers.  Nature,  when  unmolested,  does 
not  unmake  a  road,  but  puts  many  a  finishing 
touch  upon  it,  and  happy  is  the  traveller  who 
passes  that  way.  When  such  roads  go  out  of 
existence,  walking  will  become  mere  locomotion 
and  the  pedestrian  by  choice  a  curiosity.  The 
whirling  throng  of  to-day  that  glory  in  wheel- 
ing-paths and  macadam  are  becoming  familiar 
enough  with  the  wayside  halting-places  of  their 
rapid  transits,  but  what  of  the  intermediate 
country?  No  spot  quite  empty  to  the  eager- 
eyed,  and  life  lurks  in  many  a  tangle  just  over 
the  fence.  The  weeds  of  a  single  summer's 
growth  can  effectually  conceal  the  largest  bird  or 
beast  that  is  now  found  in  our  country ;  ay, 
that  has  been  found  here  since  the  days  of  the 
mastodon  and  giant  elk.  I  found  weeds,  not 
long  since,  that  were  eight  feet  high ;  but  then, 
who  cares  for  weeds? — is  not  the  very  name 
one  of  reproach  ?  and  such  foul  growths  are  to 
be  shunned,  not  sought.  Until  fools  are  dead 
this  will  ever  be  the  case  ;  but  a  wilderness  of 
weeds  of  a  single  summer's  growth  will  well  re- 
pay most  careful  exploration.  It  can  offer  stout 
resistance  to  your  progress,  and  what  may  not 


A  Very  Old  Milestone.  195 

hyssop  and  boneset  and  iron-weed  and  dudder 
conceal  ?  Your  legs  and  arms  held  fast  by 
the  Gordian  knot  of  greenbrier,  you  magnify, 
when  helpless,  every  unexplained  condition,  and 
a  foot-long  garter-snake  will  give  you  a  passing 
vision  of  a  boa-constrictor,  and  mice  will  grow 
to  wild-cats,  before  you  see  them  scampering 
across  your  feet.  If  you  would  rid  the  day  of 
possible  monotony,  push  through  a  pathless 
thicket  in  the  corner  of  some  neglected  field  ; 
get  scratched  and  pricked,  and  warmed  by  the 
effort,  if  not  excitement,  and  believe  ever  after 
that  the  well-known  country,  as  you  thought  it, 
is  not  so  well  known  after  all.  Too  seldom  do 
we  leave  the  beaten  path  and  leap  over  the 
farmers'  fences. 

Roads  or  paths  alike  are  mere  conveniences. 
We  do  not  live  on  them.  The  little  poetry 
they  possessed  passed  with  the  times  that  were. 
Endless  the  stream  of  traffic  and  of  pleasure  it 
may  be  that  now  is  passing  to  and  fro,  but  how 
prosy  the  present  when  the  milestone  calls  up 
a  vision  of  the  past,  when  the  winding  way 
through  the  woods  was  the  spot  where  the  col- 
onists occasionally  met  and  held  earnest  conver- 


196  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

sation,  or,  better  yet,  by  chance  young  people 
came  by,  and  how  vividly  the  youth  stands  out  in 
one's  imagination  as  he  leans  nervously  against 
the  old  stone  and  murmurs  little  nothings  that 
elicit  a  scarcely  audible  reply  ! 

The  old  milestone  is  intricately  seamed,  and 
many  the  deep  lines  here  and  there,  but  Nature 
has  been  the  etcher.  In  vain  has  been  my 
search  for  hearts  transfixed  by  arrows ;  yet  in 
the  century  and  more  that  passed  when  this  was 
in  very  fact  a  milestone,  some  such  comedy 
must  have  been  acted  within  the  reach  of  its 
noontide  shadow. 

S.  M.  stood  for  Stacy's  Mill,  and  that  was 
three  miles  away  as  the  crow  flies,  but  all  traces 
of  the  figures  indicating  this  fact  have  crumbled 
to  dust.  Indeed,  I  have  but  the  ghost  of  a 
milestone,  but  ghosts  are  suggestive,  if  not  lo- 
quacious, and  how  glorious  it  would  be  if  many 
people  we  know  were  only  ghosts  !  Mahlon 
Stacy,  the  proprietor,  had  five  daughters  I  know 
of,  and  perhaps  there  were  others,  and  how  un- 
likely that  this  milestone  should  not  have  been 
passed  and  repassed  by  anxious,  meditative 
swains,  going,  of  course,  to  the  mill  on  business, 


A  Very  Old  Milestone.  197 

but  coming  from  it  dissatisfied  if  Ruth  or  Re- 
becca had  not  been  in  evidence.  In  such  way 
fancy  runs  wild  as  I  look  at  the  stone,  and  in 
more  sober  moments  I  am  forced  to  confess  the 
thing  itself  is  not  suggestive.  How  utterly 
stupid  is  a  modern  milestone  !  and  why,  after 
all,  should  one  that  has  crumbled  under  Time's 
destroying  touch  be  more  so  ?  It  fails,  to  my 
sorrow,  to  conjure  up  a  lengthy  panorama  of 
Colonial  days.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well ;  for  if  the 
whole  truth  were  told  our  enthusiasm  might  be 
chilled.  As  it  is,  we  forget  that  then  as  now 
there  was  an  ugly,  seamy  underside  of  things, 
and  the  early  settlers  were  quite  as  human  as 
their  successors  of  to-day.  No  ;  in  digging  up 
an  old  milestone  I  did  not  dig  up  a  treasure. 
Fancy  no  more  clings  to  it  than  water  to  the 
feathers  of  a  duck.  But  I  have  been  impatient. 
Looking  at  it  again  to-day,  while  the  storm 
was  raging,  the  old  milestone,  to  my  surprise, 
was  clothed  with  interest.  Brave  snow-birds 
perched  upon  it.  How  suggestive  they  proved 
to  be  !  A  strange  light  seemed  to  rest  upon  the 
stone,  and  I  saw,  as  in  a  picture,  the  forests  of 
other  days  ;  and  not  a  tree  but  was  the  resting- 


198          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

place  of  a  bird.  Every  bush  was  the  home  of 
a  songster,  and  through  the  grass  ran  the  wary 
mother  grouse  and  quail,  with  timid,  peeping 
brood.  What  days  were  those,  when  their  one 
great  enemy  had  not  appeared  in  force,  civilized, 
cultured,  charitable,  tender-hearted  man  !  The 
milestone  brought  a  vision  to  me  of  the  day 
when  this  foe  to  the  bird  world  had  not  yet 
asserted  himself;  and  what  happy  days  those 
must  have  been  !  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  time 
was  when  on  this  very  spot  there  were  birds  by 
the  thousands,  and  now  often  half  a  day  goes 
by  and  not  even  one  poor  sparrow  to  make 
glad  the  fields.  Many  birds  passed  away  with 
the  trees,  but  not  all.  Birds  have  wit  enough 
to  accommodate  themselves  to  very  changed 
conditions,  and  would  do  so,  but  man  will  not 
permit.  Very  excellent  evidence  that  mankind 
is  not  capable  of  taking  care  of  itself,  but  needs 
an  iron  hand  to  keep  it  under  control.  We  are 
continually  prating  about  the  blessings  of  lib- 
erty, but  when  do  we  ever  hear  of  the  curses 
of  it?  Liberty  has  its  well-defined  boundaries, 
but  these  are  ignored,  and  license  and  liberty 
are  held  as  synonymous.  Now,  when  it  is 


A  Very  Old  Milestone.  199 

almost,  if  not  quite  too  late,  an  earnest  cry  is 
going  up  to  spare  the  birds  ;  but  are  not  the 
fools  too  many  and  the  wise  too  few  to  restore 
our  one-time  blessing  ?  Spare  what  are  left  by 
all  means,  but  what  of  those  that  are  gone 
forever  ? 

We  establish  national  parks  for  the  preser- 
vation of  "  noble  game"  when  it  is  threatened 
with  extinction,  but  had  not  wit  enough  to 
foresee  the  danger  and  check  the  lawless  scoun- 
drels who  caused  the  mischief.  Awake  to  the 
disappearing  bison,  because  "  noble  game,"  but 
what  of  the  nobility  of  singing  birds  ?  Is  it 
never  to  be  recognized  ?  We  do  not  seem  to 
awake  to  this  until  the  music  ceases,  and  it 
dawns  upon  us  that  something  is  lacking  to 
round  out  the  summer  day.  A  stranger  from 
another  planet  might  think  that  the  "country" 
belonged  to  the  city,  and  farmers  were  living 
in  the  fields  by  sufferance.  Some  heartless 
city  clique  demands  bluebirds  for  bonnets, 
orioles  for  hats,  and  breasts  of  grebes  for  tip- 
pets, and  these  birds  must  yield  their  lives  to 
meet  such  whims.  He  who  loves  the  living 
bird  is  a  fool  and  must  stand  aside.  A  cele- 


2OO          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

bration  of  some  sort  in  Baltimore  nearly  caused 
the  extermination  of  the  Baltimore  oriole.  Bet- 
ter exterminate But  I  forbear. 

I  can  no  longer  see  the  milestone  as  it  was. 
It  forever  brings  to  mind  the  one-time  natural 
world,  with  all  its  beauties  ;  a  thrilling  thought 
while  it  stays,  but  ever  followed  by  the  sobering 
realization  of  naked  and  almost  barren  fields. 
Gaze  intently  at  the  milestone,  and  it  will  be 
replaced  by  the  primitive  forest  and  all  wild  life 
in  its  glory ;  turn  aside  for  an  instant,  break  the 
spell,  and  what  a  dreary  outlook  is  before  us  ! 
My  milestone,  about  which  I  hoped  to  weave 
many  a  cheerful  story,  and  with  which  I  hoped 
to  spend  many  a  retrospective  hour,  is  in  very 
truth  but  a  tombstone,  recording  how  much  has 
been  lost  to  us,  .gone  from  us  forever. 


Christmas  Out  of  Doors. 

THAT  bird  is  a  bit  of  a  philosopher  that  can 
stretch  out  its  Christmas  to  three  full  months, 
and  have  the  memory  of  it  gladden  all  the  rest 
of  the  year ;  that  can  get  in  its  holiday  a  full 
month  before  we  do  ours,  and  keep  it  up  for  a 
good  two  months  after  our  one  little  day.  We 
have  such  a  bird,  a  wren,  cousin  to  the  little  chap 
that  used  to  build  in  boxes,  even  in  city  yards. 

Cheerfully,  cheerfully,  cJieerfully  !  Hear  its 
Christmas  salutation,  and  who  thinks  of  the 
dismal  weather,  even  if  snow  be  fathoms  deep  ? 
See  to  it,  see  to  it,  see  to  it !  Who  can  resist 
attending  to  such  a  command  and  keeping  a 
merry  countenance,  even  if  there  is  no  turkey 
for  dinner?  That  wren's  music  will  soften  the 
hardest  crust,  and  change  what  is  very  like  a 
fast  to  a  feast. 

No  holly  or  mistletoe,  but  why  feel  slighted  ? 
Here  is  black  alder  with  as  bright  a  berry,  the 

201 


2O2          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

whole  bush  like  a  ruddy  flame  that  warms  and 
lights  the  woodside  glen,  and  here  is  moss  as 
green  as  any  sunny  grass-plot  of  a  May  morn- 
ing ;  here,  too,  is  Prince's  pine  and  pipsissewa, 
and  not  a  brown  leaf  in  the  woodland  path  but 
covers  some  fresh  and  frost-defying  growth. 
Even  in  the  open  fields,  tempest-swept  and 
bleak  under  a  cloudy  sky,  there  is  modest 
mullein,  velvety  and  bright,  that  looks  up  at 
you  like  a  winsome  girl  wrapped  in  her  winter 
furs.  We  start  out  on  a  Christmas  walk,  think- 
ing we  will  have  to  hunt  for  cheer,  and  find 
rather  that  our  search  must  be  for  the  truly 
desolate ;  that  is,  if  we  want  to  nourish  our 
pessimism  among  the  wrecks  and  ruins  of  the 
dead  summer ;  and  at  every  turn  in  our  path, 
it  may  be,  we  will  be  urged  to  go  yet  farther 
afield  by  this  good  genius  of  a  winter's  day, 
the  wren,  that  will  call,  when  you  least  expect  it, 
Look  here,  look  here,  look  here !  This  is  not 
silly  fancy,  nor  overstraining  of  a  wild  bird's 
note  to  make  it  suit  our  whim.  The  Carolina 
wren  has  found  the  secret  of  a  sweet  content 
and  would  share  it  with  the  world. 

Do  not  ask  where   this  strange  bird  finds  a 


Christmas  Out  of  Doors.          203 

home, — whether  in  open  fields  or  wooded  hill- 
side, by  the  wide  river's  bush-grown  banks,  or 
hides  in  hollows  thick  with  tangled  briers.  I  do 
not  wish  to  track  his  wrenship  to  his  lair.  He 
is  not  a  bird  to  be  hunted,  but  let  him  find  you 
out.  Reverse  the  order,  and  be  pursued  rather 
than  the  pursuer.  Now,  he  comes  from  the 
twiggy  tops  of  twisted  trees,  and  then,  as 
if  earth  opened,  he  comes  from  some  dark 
cave  beneath  you  ;  but  whatever  the  direction, 
whatever  the  manner,  the  message  that  he 
brings  is  ever  the  same,  let  him  express  it  as 
he  will, — Cheery,  cheery,  cheery  !  and  even  the 
old  oaks  look  glad.  Whether  or  not,  I  feel  so 
when  I  hear  this  earnest  herald  of  a  winter-long 
Christmas.  Not  all  the  sacred  music  of  this 
day  is  to  be  heard  in  the  churches.  There  is  a 
real  or  supposed  magic  in  green,  and  never  a 
day  in  winter  but  we  greet  it  effusively,  as  an 
ever  welcome  but  unexpected  gift.  Are  we 
logical  ?  We  act  as  though  we  would  all  have 
headaches  if  the  world  was  red,  or  become 
bilious  beyond  endurance  if  the  skies  were  yel- 
low, forgetting  that  the  Eskimo  finds  a  white 
world  endurable  ;  so  why  not  we,  who  hold 


204  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

ourselves  so  far  in  advance  of  hyperboreans, 
find  the  at  present  all  prevailing  browns  of  win- 
ter an  inspiring  color?  It  is  not  for  a  moment 
to  be  considered  with  reference  to  what  has 
been  or  will  be,  but  as  to  what  is.  Here  we 
are,  confronting  a  brown  world  this  Christmas 
morning, — brown  grass,  brown  weeds,  brown 
everything, — and  yet  only  regretfully,  and  loath 
to  take  up  each  object  as  it  is  and  live  in  the 
present  moment.  If  we  could  walk  with  the 
Carolina  wren  continually  present,  chiding  our 
faint-heartedness,  perhaps  our  illogic  would  not 
be  overpowering.  Do  not  wait,  however,  for 
the  bird  to  call  out  Look  up  at  me,  look  up  at 
me/  but  remember  its  cheerful  assurances  at 
the  outset  and  live  only  in  the  present  moment ; 
never  indulge  in  a  backward  glance  even  men- 
tally, nor,  worse  than  all,  wonder  if  your  neigh- 
bor's fields  are  less  brown  than  your  own. 
Here  you  are,  and  a  downright  fool  not  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  Let  the  path  before  you 
be  the  subject  of  a  brown  study,  but  do  not  let 
any  element  of  a  sad  and  sickly  retrospection 
enter  therein.  Why,  when  grass  is  dead,  does 
it  turn  brown  and  yellow  rather  than  pink  and 


Christmas  Out  of  Doors.          205 

purple  ?  Let  such  a  question  come  to  mind  ; 
puzzle  over  it,  and  see  more  in  winter  than  a 
mere  cemetery  of  the  summer.  Do  this,  and 
you  will  not  be  so  surprised  at  the  Carolina 
wren's  sudden  outburst  of  Cheerfully,  cheer- 
fully, cheerfully !  because  you  are  now  so 
cheerful  yourself. 

I  fancy  the  attractiveness  of  in-door  festivities 
of  a  Christmas  Day  will  always  be  enhanced,  by 
way  of  the  contrast,  if  we  have  a  Christmas 
outing  in  the  same  twenty-four  hours.  We  can 
better  keep  our  own  holiday  if  we  know  some- 
thing of  how  Nature  is  celebrating  hers.  Better 
this  than  by  taking  a  nap  after  dinner,  as  we 
are  apt  to  do.  Doubtless  Nature  sleeps  in  the 
moon  and  not  even  dreams,  if  astronomers  are 
not  mistaken,  but  here  on  earth  one  can  find 
activity  enough  even  in  late  December,  if  we 
know  how  to  go  in  search  of  it.  The  Carolina 
wren  is  sufficient  of  himself  to  guide  you  into 
paths  of  pleasantness  and  of  surprisingly  active 
celebrations  of  upland  and  meadow  merriment, 
but  never  for  one  instant  think  this  bird  is  left 
alone  to  keep  creation  in  good  spirits.  There 
is  the  cardinal,  that  whistles  not  to  keep  his 


2o6          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

courage  up,  but  to  keep  his  too  great  good 
spirits  properly  down  ;  transmuting  his  surplus 
energy  to  music  that  other  creatures  may  share 
his  happiness.  Who,  I  wonder,  can  think  his 
walk  barren  of  attraction  that  has  been  saluted 
by  a  chickadee  ?  Probably  this  has  happened, 
but  it  is  well  to  lend  a  patient  ear  to  every  bird 
that  flies.  Birds  are  not  people,  remember,  and 
are  in  some  things  their  superiors.  There  are 
those  in  this  world  who  have  judged  and  spoken 
hastily  to  unassuming  people  and  lost  thereby 
that  for  which  they  have  been  laboring  half  their 
lives.  With  but  very  few  exceptions — none, 
with  some  people — our  chickadee  is  the  dearest 
of  all  the  hundreds  of  birds  that  crowd  about 
our  home,  and  there  should  be  no  lack  of  com- 
pany nor  ground  for  complaint ;  no  excuse  for 
loneliness  on  the  rambler's  part  if  even  but  one 
of  these  birds  greets  him  in  the  woods  or  by  the 
wayside.  Christmas  jollity  extends  over  the 
whole  winter  with  the  chickadee.  We  make 
much  of  it  to-day,  and  at  most  pick  the  bones 
of  yesterday's  turkey  to-morrow.  Why  Christ- 
mas at  all,  if  it  preaches  no  sermon  we  can  re- 
member ?  The  spirit  of  the  day  in  us,  it  seems 


Christmas  Out  of  Doors.          207 

to  be  also  in  all  we  see.  Even  the  solemn  little 
red  owl  in  the  hollow  apple-tree  looks  to-day 
less  wise  and  more  natural  and  happy,  his  big 
eyes  reflecting  the  glow  of  winterberry  and 
cedar  and  the  green  of  the  fresh  grass  spread 
now  over  the  pebbly  bed  of  the  rippling  brook. 
Not  literally  so,  perhaps,  but  seemingly,  be- 
cause, in  a  happier  mood  ourselves,  our  own 
vision  is  clearer.  We  leave  dull  care  behind 
us,  and  Nature  then  always  looks  kindly  on  our 
better  selves.  She  has  no  patience  with  de- 
spondency, which  is  twin  to  cowardice,  but 
meets  cheerfulness  face  to  face.  When  the 
storm  comes  the  Carolina  wren  raises  its  voice. 
Are  our  activities  roused  in  proportion  as  the 
tempest  rages  ? 

The  in-door  world  to-day  has  a  stronger  claim 
than  usual  upon  us.  The  coveted  outing  must 
be  cut  short,  but  better  a  crowded  furlong  than 
an  empty  mile,  and  no  man  has  yet  seen  all 
that  a  furlong  has  to  show.  Eager  to  return, 
yet  reluctant  to  leave  the  merry  field  and  wood, 
it  is  well,  perhaps,  that  Christmas  comes  but 
once  a  year. 


The  Charm  of  the  Inexact. 

\VHEN  a  child  of  two  or  three  is  asked  if  it 
will  have  a  cake,  it  naturally  answers  "Yes," 
but  the  cake  is  withheld  until  there  is  added  to 
the  original  reply  "  Thank  you,  ma'am  ;"  all  of 
which  may  be  very  polite,  but  is  an  infliction 
that  the  child  should  be  spared.  It  is  not  what 
is  said,  but  how  it  is  said,  that  determines  the 
mental  status  of  the  speaker.  A  simple  "yes" 
or  "no,"  as  the  case  may  be,  spoken  in  a 
proper  tone  and  with  a  meaning  look,  is  better 
a  thousand  times  over  than,  in  reply  to  a  simple 
question,  to  have  a  small  vocabulary  impatiently 
flung  at  you.  We  have  but  to  listen  to  an 
ordinary  conversation  between  a  half-dozen 
couples  in  a  room,  and  with  our  eyes  shut  we 
can  imagine  a  battle  royal  between  Webster, 
Worcester,  and  the  several  new  dictionaries.  We 
use  too  many  words  ;  the  trouble  begins  in 
infancy,  and  while  then  it  is  mere  tautology  and 
208 


The  Charm  of  the  Inexact.        209 

meaningless,  it  unavoidably  develops  a  love  of 
inexact  statement,  as  when  a  child  is  found 
perfunctorily  adding  "  I  thank  you"  when  it 
doesn't,  and  saying  "yes"  for  politeness'  sake, 
or  to  escape  punishment,  when  its  wishes  call 
for  "no." 

I  remember  well,  when  a  little  boy,  being 
asked  by  my  mother  if  I  did  not  want  to  go 
with  Mrs.  Bluemonday  and  carry  her  bundle. 
My  reply  was,  "I  do  not  want  to  go,  but  I 
can."  Here  was  an  exact  statement  of  the 
conditions  ;  but  I  was  roundly  scolded  for  being 
so  outspoken.  Result,  from  that  day  I  hated 
Mrs.  Bluemonday. 

The  man  who  mentions  but  the  plain  fact,  or 
is  mathematically  or  rnonosyllabically  inclined 
and  says  "warm"  and  "cool,"  meaning  just 
this,  for  "hot"  and  "cold,"  not  meaning  those 
conditions, — such  a  person,  I  say,  is  invariably 
but  most  unreasonably  voted  a  bore.  He  can- 
not meet  our  extravagant  demands,  requiring, 
as  we  do,  recklessness  of  statement  to  rouse  us 
to  even  a  semblance  of  attention.  The  brilliant 
man,  as  he  is  popularly  called,  is  too  often  but 
a  polysyllabic  chatterer.  Fatigue  never  checks 
14 


21O          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

his  loquacity,  but  it  is  muscular  rather  than  in- 
tellectual vigor  that  stands  him  so  well  in  need. 
Why  ?  If  we  go  back  to  the  starting-point  of 
our  intellectual  careers,  we  find  that  the  natural 
disposition  to  observe  literally  a  scriptural  in- 
junction and  let  "yea"  and  "nay"  suffice  is 
corrected,  and  we  are  forced  to  tack  on  a  deal 
that  means  nothing  usually  and  sometimes  is  a 
positive  falsehood.  In  short,  the  child  that 
would  be  terse  and  truthful  is  required  to  be 
verbose  and  incorrect.  The  Psalmist  said  in 
his  haste,  "All  men  are  liars:"  if  living  now, 
he  could  and  would  say  it  with  justified  delib- 
eration. 

As  words  are  merely  signs  of  our  ideas  and 
we  come  quickly  to  understanding  them,  how- 
ever improperly  used,  there  is  no  serious  harm 
done,  it  is  claimed  ;  but  this  we  deny.  Least 
of  the  ills  is  that  most  commented  upon,  the 
development  of  a  curious  condition,  the  demand 
for  strong  statement,  for  the  use  of  even  many 
adjectives  when  none  are  called  for.  In  short, 
we  become  charmed,  as  in  the  myth  of  the  ser- 
pent exerting  its  power  over  birds,  by  the  mere 
tools  of  speech.  For  this  reason  our  language 


The  Charm  of  the  Inexact.        211 

appeals  to  the  eye  more  than  to  the  ear.  As 
written,  it  is  much  more  artistic  than  as  spoken. 
We  listen  to  the  reading  of  printed  matter  with 
pleasure  and  profit,  but  when  is  conversation 
akin  to  this?  I  trust  others  have  been  more 
fortunate.  I  have  not  met  a  dozen  persons  who 
knew  thoroughly  well  how  to  talk  and  gave  me 
the  feeling  of  having  been  fortunate  because  I 
had  met  them.  Conversation  should  be  worth 
the  effort  of  utterance  ;  but  how  seldom  the 
outcome  warrants  the  wear  and  tear  of  the 
machinery  ! 

There  is  a  ludicrous  aspect  of  this  whole 
question,  attached  almost  exclusively  to  the  con- 
versation of  women,  which  is  perhaps  a  natural 
outcome  of  their  inborn  disposition  to  reck- 
lessness of  statement,  particularly  where  some 
immediate,  petty  advantage  is  to  be  gained,  and 
total  lack  of  heed  as  to  the  ultimate  conse- 
quence. It  required  some  months  of  constant 
observation,  much  commingling  with  woman- 
kind at  popular  gatherings,  and  a  deal  of  listen- 
ing unobserved  when  in  stores  and  places  of 
amusement,  to  determine  the  curious  fact,  as 
asserted  by  these  women,  that  not  one  of  them 


212  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

was  ever  startled  by  some  sudden  occurrence, 
but  always  "frightened  to  death."  Never  a 
woman  because  of  a  delayed  meal  felt  the  con- 
dition of  hunger  but  was  "  almost  starved  ;" 
she  is  never  cold,  but  "positively  frozen  ;"  and 
so  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  The  frequency 
of  a  woman's  nearness  to  death  is  so  marked, 
in  her  conversation,  that  when  the  critical  time 
comes  we  imagine  she  ought  from  familiarity 
with  the  sensation  to  shuffle  off  this  mortal  coil 
with  inexpressible  ease  and  grace.  And  per- 
haps it  is  from  this  claimed  familiarity  that  she 
is  able  to  hoodwink  the  king  of  terrors,  for  she 
lives  to  be  a  hundred  much  more  frequently 
than  falls  to  the  lot  of  men.  But  most  remark- 
able of  all  of  woman's  peculiarities  is  the  fre- 
quency with  which  she  is  "just  crazy."  The 
most  trivial  incident  completely  unbalances  her, 
and  all  day  long  she  is  "just  crazy"  to  see,  to 
hear,  to  say,  to  do  ;  and  it  must  be  admitted 
that  a  great  deal  which  she  does  and  says  does 
smack  of  lunacy.  Perhaps  it  is  this  lack  of 
absolute  sanity  that  makes  them  so  charming. 
Certainly  there  is  some  cause  for  it  other  than 
exquisitely  adjusted  mentality.  Let  us  be  thank- 


The  Charm  of  the  Inexact.       213 

ful  for  the  inexactitude  of  her  self-condemnation 
as  to  sanity.  She  is  always  "just  crazy,"  but 
generally  sane  enough  to  meet  the  approval  of 
mankind.  Why  men  never  use  these  extrav- 
agant expressions  I  do  not  know.  Is  it  be- 
cause of  the  ounce  or  two  more  brain  or  an 
added  convolution  to  the  wrinkled  mass  ? 

This  potent  spell,  this  charm  of  the  inexact, 
cast  over  us  in  early  life,  is  the  fountain-head  of 
the  all-prevalent  insincerity  that  marks  more  or 
less  every  individual's  career  ;  and,  ungallant  as 
it  may  seem  to  make  the  statement,  this  brief 
dealing  with  plain  facts  necessitates  that  women 
are  to  be  placed  in  the  front  rank  in  this  regard. 
Not  a  new  bonnet  at  Easter  or  new  dress  at  a 
reception  but  calls  forth  the  "  How  lovely  !" 
and  "Perfectly  exquisite!"  that  ripple  charm- 
ingly from  rosy  lips,  but  did  not  bubble  up 
from  the  heart.  Alas,  the  fair  creatures  when 
they  reach  home  say  to  themselves  or  to  their 
sisters  of  this  same  bonnet  or  dress,  "Wasn't 
it  horrid?"  And  in  the  crowded  street,  when 
they  meet  their  acquaintances  every  one  for  the 
moment  is  their  dearest  friend,  and  the  sole 
pleasure  of  the  morning  had  been  to  meet 


214          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

them :  out  of  hearing,  how  frequently  this 
dearest  friend  is  stabbed  in  the  back  !  How 
very  wonderful  and  incomprehensible  is  this 
charm  of  the  inexact,  and  how  very  unnecessary  ! 

It  may  be  objected  that  too  precise  statement 
would  prove  like  the  old-time  Quaker  garb,  so 
monotonous  that  it  would  be  depressing,  and 
gayety  shut  out  from  the  world.  This  seems 
reasonable  at  first  glance,  but  if  we  practise 
moderation  of  speech  and  correctness  of  as- 
sertion, even  very  mildly,  it  will  be  found  not 
so  funereal  as  imagined.  Our  thoughtless  chat- 
ter may  be  likened  to  the  glare  of  sunshine  ; 
our  sober  conversation  to  the  refreshing  shade. 

Here  is  another  view  of  the  subject,  and  by 
no  means  an  unimportant  one.  The  world  at 
large  would  be  less  ignorant  if  fact  and  theory- 
could  forever  be  kept  separate  and  apart  until 
the  latter  has  passed  its  probationary  stages  and 
been  raised  to  the  state  of  fact-hood.  But  they 
are  not  kept  apart  and  radically  distinct,  they 
keep  knowledge  in  a  turmoil,  and  prove,  sadly 
enough,  that  where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly 
to  be  wise.  Those  who  read  our  newspapers 
and  periodical  publications  find  it  difficult  to 


The  Charm  of  the  Inexact.        215 

equip  themselves  with  the  facts  of  any  case, 
seeing  how  fiercely  disputed  is  every  statement 
of  a  fact  as  such.  Those  who  have  had  ex- 
perience in  any  line  of  research  know  the 
bewildering  array  of  opinions  daily  set  forth, 
and  how  persistently  the  theorists  hound  every 
one  who  ventures  to  question  their  hobbies  by 
virtue  of  the  obvious  facts  resulting  from  their 
own  observations.  To  defy  the  truth  and  de- 
fame the  truthful  that  theory  may  remain  as- 
cendant and  the  fathers  of  theories  hold  to  high 
places  is  one  of  the  melancholy  features  of  prev- 
alent inexact  statement.  This  phase  indeed 
calls  for  strong  language,  and  it  is  unfortunate 
that  it  is  not  legally  permissible.  A  vast  deal 
of  the  ignorance  that  is  now  prevalent  is  due 
to  the  impudence  of  those  who  have  really  no 
authority  to  express  an  opinion.  Barnum,  it 
was,  I  believe,  who  said  people  liked  to  be 
humbugged;  but  did  not  this  refer  to  matters 
of  mere  amusement, — tricks  that  we  were  always 
expecting  to  solve  and  so  set  ourselves  aright? 
So  far  no  harm  is  done,  but  not  so  when  the 
truth  is  held  back  because  here  and  there  some 
opiniative  "professor"  must  needs  confess  him- 


216          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

self  mistaken.  This  is  everywhere  a  feature  of 
inexact  statement  that  is  not  charming,  but  dis- 
gusting, to  those  who  finally  discover  for  how 
long  a  time  they  have  been  duped  by  dishonest 
"  authorities"  on  the  subject. 


The  Rustic :    a  Protest. 

BY  mere  accident  my  eye  caught  the  definition 
of  "Rustic"  in  Stormonth's  Dictionary,  and  I, 
being  a  countryman,  at  once  rebelled.  "  Rude, 
untaught,  awkward,  unadorned."  Perhaps  it 
was  unwise,  but  at  the  time,  and  still,  I  feel 
warranted  in  talking  back,  and  am  moved  to  de- 
clare the  definition,  as  it  stands  without  any 
mollifying  comment,  undeserved.  But  my  pro- 
test must  have  a  beginning  that  is  respectful,  if 
emphatic,  and  to  maintain  with  proper  dignity 
the  rustic's  point  of  view  I  will  start  with  the 
assertion  that  the  dictionary's  statement,  stand- 
ing without  qualification,  is  not  true.  If  the 
rustic  is  all  that  is  here  said  of  him,  it  means,  as 
compared  with  city  folk,  and  what  a  difference 
that  makes  !  Why  cannot  I,  a  rustic,  look  de- 
preciatingly at  the  folks  in  town  ?  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  have  never  done  anything  else. 

The  rustic  is  not  necessarily  rude.      He  may 

217 


218          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

be  plain-spoken,  but  not  offensively  so.  He 
may  look  you  straight  in  the  eye,  but  he  does 
not  impudently  stare,  and  there  is  herein  a  won- 
derful difference  not  always  recognized  within 
city  limits.  Honest  himself,  he  expects  honesty 
in  you,  and,  speaking  the  truth,  neither  blushes 
in  so  doing  nor  expects  that  his  words  will  cause 
you  to  be  confused.  If  this  is  rudeness,  let  us 
have  more  of  it. 

Untaught  !  True,  he  may  never  have  heard 
of  Homer,  and  is  in  doubt  if  Shakespeare  is  the 
author  of  dramas,  or  is  a  play  of  that  name. 
Never  mind.  The  rustic  makes  a  remark  at 
odd  times  that  Shakespeare  would  have  been 
delighted  to  have  thought  of.  Shockingly  un- 
taught !  Yes  ;  but  what  is  ancient  literature  to 
him  who  has  been  reared  in  the  still  older  litera- 
ture of  a  bird's  song  and  the  murmur  of  the 
breeze  in  the  pine-tree  tops  that  shade  his  cot- 
tage? If  untaught  as  to  the  past,  in  an  his- 
torical sense,  he  is  not  ignorant  of  the  present, 
and  his  arguments  in  times  of  political  turmoil 
are  worthy  of  attention.  It  seems  not  to  occur 
to  some  people  that  the  rustic  has  no  special 
edition  of  the  metropolitan  dailies  printed  to 


The  Rustic:   a  Protest.  219 

meet  the  requirements  of  his  supposed  inferi- 
ority. And,  to  be  less  serious,  how  effectually 
he  silences  many  a  college-bred  theorist  who 
applies  his  knowledge  of  Nature  to  the  rustic's 
farm. 

"There  ought  to  be  clay  near  the  surface 
here  and  rock  cropping  out  over  yonder,  and 
your  soil  is  better  adapted  to  grass  than  grain," 
the  rustic  is  informed. 

"  Ought  to  be,  did  you  say,  sir  ?  Well,  per- 
haps ;  only  it  ain't  so.  There's  no  clay  nor 
rocks  within  sight,  and  I  grow  better  wheat  than 
hay. ' ' 

The  college  man  is  not  silenced.  How  could 
a  rustic  accomplish  that  ?  Perhaps  he  thinks 
the  man  is  lying,  and  he  continues,  patroniz- 
ingly, "Your  brook  is  too  small  for  anything 
but  minnows,  and  all  the  game's  killed  off,  of 
course." 

"  Good-sized  minnies,  sir,  in  that  ditch  in  the 
pastur'  meadow  ;  big  enough  for  pan  fish,  so 
the  folks  say,  when  I  bring  up  a  mess  of  pike, 
a  pound  a-piece  or  more  ;  but  you're  right  about 
game.  There's  no  deer  nor  bears,  but  when 
the  season  comes  in,  I  look  a  bit  after  the  quail 


22O  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

and  woodcock  and  rabbits  and  the  like.  Farm 
work's  pretty  much  done  up  in  October,  and  I 
don't  mind  takin'  a  day  off." 

How  very  rude,  thinks  the  college  man  ;  but 
stay,  where  really  was  the  rudeness  ?  Does  it 
not  lie  at  the  door  of  the  townsman  who  comes 
to  the  country  thinking  that  every  rustic  is  a 
fool  ?  There  is  not  one  word  to  be  said  against 
colleges  and  the  education  to  be  received  there, 
but  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  no  portion  of 
that  same  lore  can  be  gathered  without  the  aid 
of  a  text-book.  Given  a  desire  for  knowledge 
and  it  can  be  had  by  any  one  at  head-quarters, 
from  Mother  Earth  herself,  as  well  as  from  class- 
rooms where  it  is  filtered  through  a  professor's 
brain. 

An  untaught  rustic  is  but  another  name  for 
an  idiot,  and  unless  in  charge  of  a  caretaker 
would  soon  die  of  starvation.  The  knowledge 
derived  by  close  contact  with  Nature  may  not 
fit  us  for  the  extremes  of  artificiality  of  the 
city  ;  may  leave  the  ear  untrained  for  the  opera 
but  not  unappreciative  of  the  thrush  ;  may  knot 
the  knuckles,  to  the  destruction  of  kid  gloves, 
but  harden  them  to  effectiveness  when  brought 


The  Rustic:   a  Protest.  221 

face  to  face  with  danger.  The  rustic's  eye  may 
not  follow  the  cunning  of  the  landscape  spread 
upon  canvas,  but  it  notes  the  changing  scene 
as  the  seasons  pass,  and  makes  the  rustic  the 
reliable  guide  if  you  would  know  where  the 
sweetest  fruits  and  brightest  flowers  are  found  ; 
and  it  is  not  an  unknown  occurrence  for  the 
museum-lounging  naturalist  to  experience  a  set- 
back when  he  airs  his  science  in  the  rustic's 
hearing.  Untaught,  yes  ;  we  admit  it,  but  every 
inch  a  man.  Do  those  from  the  city  always 
bear  measuring  by  the  same  standard  ?  Is  the 
rest  from  toil  less  wholesome,  more  animal-like, 
less  worthy  of  a  man,  sought  in  the  rude  rocker 
of  hickory  splints,  than  that,  too  often  sought 
in  vain,  on  velvet  cushions  ?  It  is  a  matter  of 
difference  of  education,  of  tastes  in  opposite 
directions,  but  is  there  less  manliness  ?  Is  the 
rustic  really  lower  in  the  scale  ?  Is  being  nearer 
to  Nature  lower  than  being  part  and  parcel  of  a 
town  ?  The  most  fastidious  can  pass  weeks  with 
a  rustic  and  yet  never  have  a  fair  opportunity  to 
criticise  adversely  one  word  or  deed.  That  the 
"untaught"  condition  of  the  rustic,  as  viewed 
by  the  city  man,  signifies  lack  of  refinement  and 


222  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


necessitates  it,  is  positively  untrue.  He  may  be 
plainer  spoken,  may  never  attempt  to  chase  the 
devil  around  the  stump,  but  his  words  are  no 
more  offensive  than  the  vagueness  of  the  town- 
dweller's  redundant  phrases.  If  they  are  offen- 
sive, then  the  hearer  is  more  open  to  criticism 
than  the  speaker.  Unto  the  honest  all  things 
are  honest,  and  the  defect  lies  with  those  whose 
thoughts  are  led  into  miry  paths  because  of 
honest  speech  uttered  with  no  trace  or  thought  of 
extended  construction.  No;  the  "untaught" 
rustic  has  a  good  deal  to  be  thankful  for,  having 
honesty  sufficient  to  look  the  world  squarely  in 
the  eye  and  speak  plainly.  It  is  an  inestimable 
privilege,  and  he  who  takes  offence  is  a  fool. 

The  author  of  my  dictionary  is  not  content 
with  calling  the  rustic  he  had  in  mind  rude  and 
untaught,  but  he  is  awkward  !  Whether  this  is 
a  greater  or  less  defect  than  the  others  I  do  not 
know,  but  it  stands  equally  prominent  upon  the 
printed  page.  Awkward  !  I  admit  he  might 
not  pass  through  a  crowded  parlor  without  jost- 
ling the  elbow  of  some  slender  fop  of  the  city, 
or  worse,  might  tread  upon  that  abomination  of 
fashion,  a  lady's  train  ;  he  might,  but  only  with 


The  Rustic :    a  Protest.  223 

grave  misgiving,  be  trusted  to  pass  a  cup  of 
coffee  through  a  surging  crowd  of  hungry  mor- 
tals. It  were  better  not  to  trust  him.  Yes  ; 
awkward  when  he  feels  out  of  place,  and  who  is 
not  ?  But  I  have  seen  this  awkward  rustic  pick 
up  a  light  rifle — rifle,  mind ;  not  shot-gun — 
and  bring  down  a  teal  that  was  flying  at  the  rate 
of  a  mile  a  minute  ;  have  seen  him  drive  his 
team  afield  and  plough  a  furrow,  without  other 
guide  than  his  eye,  as  straight  as  the  best  sur- 
veyor could  have  staked  it  out.  I  have  seen 
him  cut  a  slender  switch,  and  with  a  fuzzy  string 
from  the  grocer's  counter  make  tackle  that 
wound  deftly  in  and  out  among  the  overhanging 
tangle  of  brush,  and  bring  to  his  creel  the  trout 
that  had  teased  and  tormented  the  skilled  an- 
gler. Awkward,  yes  ;  where  the  artificialities  of 
town  are  concerned,  but  scarcely  so  when  near 
to  Nature.  There  he  treads  the  earth  with  that 
confidence  in  his  strength  which  makes  him  bold 
as  a  lion  where  bravery  is  called  for,  and  gentle 
as  a  lamb  to  all  the  unoffending  world. 

Not  content  with  the  triple  charge,  that,  if 
true,  would  be  too  great  a  load  to  carry,  the 
author  of  the  dictionary  adds  that  the  rustic  is 


224  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

unadorned.  We  know  all  too  well  there  is  truth 
in  this  charge.  There  is  no  ring  on  his  finger, 
no  diamond  on  his  shirt  front ;  the  cuffs  are 
buttoned,  or  there  may  be  no  cuffs  at  all ;  there 
are  no  tanned  shoes  polished  with  lemon  juice 
or  banana  peel ;  no  golf  stockings  or  cycling 
suit ;  not  a  trace  of  evidence  that  Fashion  has 
been  ever  heard  of;  but  there  is  a  glitter  in  the 
eye  that  outsparkles  the  diamond  ;  there  is  the 
line  of  strength  in  every  muscle  if  not  the  line 
of  beauty,  and  through  the  sunburn  that  has 
reddened  his  face  shines  an  honest  purpose  that 
fills  his  whole  life  ;  an  adornment  that  is  too 
often  lacking  when  we  pass  the  boundary  that 
divides  town  and  country.  It  may  be  true,  but 
is  it  pity  that  the  rustic  is  rude,  untaught, 
awkward,  and  unadorned,  when,  with  all  these 
blemishes,  he  knows  no  fear,  and  in  time  passes 
to  another  world  without  thought  of  cringing, 
but  to  look  directly  in  the  face,  all  unabashed, 
whomsoever  he  may  meet  in  the  realms  of 
eternity  ? 

How  true  it  is  that  the  rustic  loses  when  he 
goes  to  town  !  with  the  man  of  the  city  it  is  all 
gain  when  he  goes  into  the  country.  Lay 


The  Rustic :   a  Protest.  225 

prejudice  aside.  Be  honest  for  the  moment,  if 
not  too  great  an  effort,  and  see  if  the  rustic,  as 
painted  in  the  dictionary,  loses  so  very  much 
when  compared  with  the  finished  product  of 
metropolitan  humanity. 


The  Unlettered  Learned. 

CRUDITY  of  diction  is  not  always  indicative 
of  crudity  of  thought.  The  latter  has  been 
longer  in  the  world  than  language,  for  the  prime  • 
val  savage  was  not  without  the  elements  of 
mind  when  gestures  and  grunts  were  his  sole 
means  of  expression.  To  rebel  is  as  human  as 
to  err,  and  he  who  defies  grammar  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  fool.  How  often  we  hear  it  said,  "  Oh, 
he's  an  uneducated  man,"  and  so  pay  no  serious 
attention  to  what  this  "  unfortunate"  may  have 
to  say.  It  may  happen  that  we  suffer  more 
than  he  does  by  such  assumed  superiority.  The 
round  of  the  seasons  can  effect  as  much  as  a 
college  curriculum  to  an  open-eyed  man.  Not 
in  the  same  direction,  not  with  equal  artistic 
finish,  but  fool  himself  who  sets  down  the  un- 
tutored student  of  the  out-door  world  as  little 
better  than  a  fool.  By  syntax  and  prosody  we 
cannot  solve  the  problem  of  an  oak-tree,  or 
226 


The  Unlettered  Learned.          227 

that  of  the  minnow  in  the  brook  that  flows  past 
its  gnarly  roots.  Greek  philosophy  does  not 
explain  the  color  of  a  flower,  nor  Roman 
sophistry  why  birds  build  nests. 

Granted  the  desirability  of  all  the  intellectual 
culture  that  centres  in  a  university  library,  still 
it  is  not  indispensable  when  we  take  to  the 
woods  and  have  a  desire  to  know  more  of  the 
planet  on  which  we  live  ;  for  this  self-same  earth 
was  a  very  complete  affair  and  well  worthy  of 
a  place  in  the  universe  when  the  anthropoid  ape 
was  the  climax  of  evolutionary  activity.  Had 
man  never  been,  no  reasoning  creature  from 
Mars,  we  will  say,  could  have  thought  of  the  in- 
completeness of  earth  or  supposed  it  was  yet  to 
be  the  scene  of  higher  intellectual  activities ; 
or,  if  the  world  had  come  to  an  end  in  the  days 
of  continued  struggle  with  wild  beasts,  of  cave- 
dwelling  and  cannibalism,  it  could  not  have  been 
said  of  the  planet  that  it  had  closed  its  career 
untimely ;  nor,  later,  in  the  dawn  of  education, 
could  this  have  been  said.  Some  nineteen 
hundred  years  ago  the  end  of  the  world  was 
confidently  expected  by  a  few  thousands  of 
world-weary  enthusiasts. 


228  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

Before  the  day  of  schools  and  colleges  there 
were  unlearned  men  who  knew  a  vast  deal,  after 
their  own  fashion  ;  and  this  is  equally  true  of 
to-day.  The  world  has  waited  for  wireless 
telegraphy  and  the  electric  motor,  but  it  did  not 
need  to.  The  north  pole  is  no  longer  a  mys- 
tery, but  many  have  lived  who  were  ignorant  of 
all  this,  yet  spoke  words  of  wisdom.  The  ice 
of  the  mill-pond  whispers  the  essentials  of  a 
frozen  ocean.  Many  have  walked  boldly  to  a 
fact  and  by  unschooled  cunning  captured  it. 
Now,  the  bicycle  carries  us  across  the  continent, 
but  the  only  gathered  fact  is  that  we  are  trans- 
ported. Eyes  and  ears  are  no  longer  the  open 
avenues  to  the  brain.  Life  is  more  a  matter 
now  of  heels  than  of  head. 

The  man  who  has  spent  a  long  life  in  the 
country,  with  his  fields  bounded  by  woodland 
and  swamp,  though  he  can  neither  read  nor 
write,  is  not  necessarily  ignorant.  Nature  has 
made  so  much  of  her  working  plain  to  his  un- 
tutored mind  that  he  can  interpret  in  a  way  of 
his  own,  and  a  way,  too,  that  is  not  bewildering 
by  reason  of  a  long  array  of  contradictory  state- 
ments. It  is  something  to  have  knowledge  all 


The  Unlettered  Learned.          229 

your  own,  gathered  wholly  by  your  unaided 
efforts  :  it  makes  one  free  ;  for  he  who  merely 
echoes  another's  thoughts,  or  accepts  the  dictum 
of  another  as  to  what  is  true  and  what  is  false, 
is  in  a  sense  a  slave.  The  authorities,  as  they 
assert  themselves  to  be,  are  ever  tyrants  ;  our 
manhood  is  in  proportion  to  our  independence 
of  any  and  all  arbiters.  The  submissive  man  is 
a  mere  machine.  To  shape  our  lives  at  the 
direction  of  others  that  we  may  be  wise  and 
saved,  is  to  keep  ourselves  ignorant  and  un- 
worthy of  salvation.  Knowledge  direct  from 
Nature  is  a  source  of  satisfaction  as  unfailing  as 
a  great  library  is  to  a  student  of  books.  When 
the  uneducated  man  who  lives  in  the  open 
country  lays  by  his  work  for  the  day,  he  can 
turn  to  himself  for  amusement,  and  often  with 
satisfaction  equal  to  his  who  turns  to  the  printed 
thoughts  of  other  people. 

I  do  not  undervalue  what  the  world  calls 
"education."  Lacking  it  myself,  I  may  be 
calling  down  condemnation  upon  my  head  for 
speaking  of  it  as  I  do.  I  never  had  a  teacher 
who  gave  me  the  slightest  encouragement,  and 
more  than  one  was  a  brute  in  human  form.  I 


230  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

know  nothing  of  college  life  beyond  vague 
hearsay ;  but,  although  it  seemed  to  be  ex- 
pected, I  never  trembled  in  the  courts  of  classic 
greatness.  It  is  no  part  of  evolution  that  all 
men  should  be  of  one  pattern.  There  are  oak- 
trees  and  people  who  live  in  their  company,  and 
smaller  folk  who  linger  in  the  shade  of  shrub- 
bery ;  there  are  toilers  in  the  field  as  well  as  in 
the  town,  and  the  place  of  each  is  equally  well 
defined.  Homer,  in  the  library,  for  him  who 
loves  Homer ;  but  the  thrush's  song,  in  the 
tangle  of  green  brier,  is  sufficient  for  my  needs. 
I  may  be  less  a  man,  but  is  this  being  less  not  a 
part  of  the  scheme  of  the  world  ?  I  do  not  feel 
my  littleness.  But  I  would  speak  of  others,  not 
of  myself. 

Lack  of  guidance  derived  from  books  is  not 
a  synonyme  of  mental  inferiority  or  degradation, 
as  some  would  put  it.  The  "ignoramus"  who 
cannot  speak  correctly  can  send  the  bullet  of 
his  thought  straight  home,  if  he  does  use  as  a 
means  of  so  doing  an  obsolete  flint-lock  musket 
instead  of  the  improved  Winchester  rifle.  We 
pay  too  little  attention  to  the  fact  that  a  man's 
purpose  is  accomplished,  and  criticise  too  much 


The  Unlettered  Learned.          231 

the  manner  of  its  bringing  about.  Words  are 
signs  of  ideas  :  the  crude  speech  that  makes  me 
wiser  is  more  welcome  than  the  polished  phrase 
that  tells  me  nothing  but  what  I  knew  before, 
or  leaves  me  in  doubt  whether  it  is  sense  and 
sound,  or  sound  that  lacks  sense. 

"  But,"  speaks  up  some  one  learned  in  book- 
lore,  "without  an  arbiter  there  must  be  con- 
fusion, an  inextricable  confusion  of  fact  and 
fancy." 

"Thanks  for  the  suggestion,"  I  reply,  "but  by 
what  authority  does  your  arbiter  dare  to  deter- 
mine which  is  true  and  which  is  false  ?' '  Really, 
if  we  ponder  reverently,  patiently,  and  of  our 
own  accord,  unmoved  by  others'  urgency,  over 
the  tomes  of  Solons  dead  and  gone,  shall  we 
find  harmony  ?  The  sages  of  the  past  are  called 
authorities.  Over  what?  By  what  authority 
are  they  so  called  ?  Not  by  common  consent 
That  never  yet  has  been  accorded  to  any  man. 
Not  a  fact  was  ever  set  before  the  world  but  it 
gave  rise  to  at  least  two  opinions,  and  usually 
to  ten  times  as  many  more.  Truth  is  a  plant 
of  slow  growth,  and  man's  gardening  improves 
neither  its  stalk  nor  its  blossom.  No  one  can 


232  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

change  to  sweetness  the  bitterness  of  its  fruit, 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  embitter  its  sweetness. 
The  unassuming  man  of  the  backwoods,  whom 
we  hold  as  ignorant,  may  not  be  able  to  separate 
paste  from  diamonds,  but  both  are  sources  of 
genuine  pleasure,  and  an  arbiter,  even  if  such  a 
character  had  or  could  have  other  than  earthly 
authority,  would  only  take  away  the  paste  and 
lessen  by  a  large  fraction  the  delight  or  satis- 
faction in  life  of  the  so-called  ignorant  man. 

But  why  forever  drawing  the  distinction  be- 
tween the  ignorant  and  the  learned,  between 
wisdom  and  foolishness,  the  true  and  the  un- 
true? Do  not  the  mightiest  in  the  world  of 
scholars  hug  delusions  ?  It  is  ever  a  matter  of 
almost  all-wise  but  never  quite  so.  We  say  of 
many,  "If" — and  nothing  further  is  necessary. 
If,  then,  greatness  hugs  delusion,  why  may  not 
littleness  cling  to  the  self-taught  "ignoramus"  of 
the  woods  and  fields  ?  The  unlettered  learned 
has  his  place  in  the  world ;  the  untutored  aristo- 
crat does  not  lack  in  wholesome  dignity.  Ig- 
norance has  proved  the  guide  to  truth  too  often 
to  be  spurned  as  useless.  I  have  met  with  many 
unschooled  men,  talked  with  them,  listened  to 


The  Unlettered  Learned.  233 

them,  and  the  world  was  fuller  of  meaning  to 
me  because  of  them.  They  are  still  so  vividly 
impressed  upon  my  memory  that  when  wisdom 
makes  the  world  unlovely  (no  uncommon  occur- 
rence) I  turn  to  those  whose  ignorance  has 
proved  a  blessing  to  them,  and  so  full  a  one 
that  in  no  stinted  measure  they  share  their  joy 
with  me. 

Uz  Gaunt,  the  Humboldt  of  his  township. 
Miles  Overfield,  the  Cuvier  of  Crosswicks  Creek, 
were  the  truly  great  men  of  my  boyhood's  days, 
greater  by  far,  to  me,  than  the  "intellectual 
giants"  I  have  met  since  then.  I  say  this  with 
all  due  respect  for  those  now  living,  for  these 
men  of  my  days  of  hero-worship  told  me  what 
I  wished  to  know,  and  what  they  told  me  be- 
came then  and  there  gospel  that  I  have  not 
since  learned  to  look  upon  askance  because  of 
the  higher  criticism  natural  to  maturer  years. 
And  then,  alas  !  to-day's  Solons  are  all  at  log- 
gerheads about  such  things  as  have  ever  inter- 
ested me  the  most.  I  greet  with  hearty  laughter 
now  the  thought  that  the  simple  explanations 
of  that  unlettered  yet  really  learned  Uz  Gaunt 
stand  the  test  of  time  and  of  hostile  criticism. 


234          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

Miles  Overfield  knew  every  tree  on  the  broad 
reach  of  meadows,  and  what  each  one  was  to 
every  bird  and  beast  of  the  wide  waste  of  swamp 
and  weedy  pasture.  There  was  not  a  bird  that 
nested  here  but  he  could  lead  me  to  its  haunts, 
nor  mink  or  muskrat,  opossum,  skunk,  or  rac- 
coon, but  he  knew  where  it  hid  by  day  and 
where  by  night  it  was  likely  to  wander.  A 
hunter,  in  all  this,  but  this  was  not  all.  He  dis- 
cerned their  relations  to  one  another  and  to  the 
world  at  large.  No  mere  hunter,  bent  only 
upon  his  game  with  all  the  savagery  of  hawks 
bent  upon  their  prey,  but  a  naturalist  in  the 
widest  sense,  taking  comprehensive  views  of 
what  lay  before  him ;  grasping  with  quick  intel- 
ligence a  fact,  and — what  mankind  so  generally 
fail  to  do — grasping  its  full  significance,  the  re- 
lation of  one  fact  to  all  others.  Since  his  primer 
was  tossed  aside  with  a  shout  of  joy,  as  of  a 
prisoner  set  free,  his  eyes  had  seldom  rested  on 
a  printed  page,  and  never  quite  understandingly ; 
yet  Miles  Overfield,  though  unlettered,  was  not 
unlearned.  A  congregation  of  scientists  might 
have  confused  him,  could  they  have  cornered 
him  in  their  book-lined  halls ;  but  what  of  these 


The  Unlettered  Learned.          235 

men  singly,  did  they  meet  him  in  the  open  field  ? 
There  would  not  come  one  specialist  but  he 
could  lead  him  to  spots  that  would  delight  the 
student's  heart  and  open  up  to  him  new  views 
of  their  common  treasure-house,  the  out-door 
world. 

By  both  Gaunt  and  Overfield  technical  details 
were  overlooked,  perhaps  their  existence  was 
never  suspected  ;  the  scholars'  fine  philosophy 
never  entered  their  dreams.  That  far,  they  were 
abundantly  happy  in  their  ignorance.  As  to 
the  great  mystery  that  encompasses  the  whole 
earth  and  the  heavens  above  the  earth,  they 
were  wisely  content  to  leave  to  eternity  to 
make  clear  whatsoever  time  withheld  from 
them.  These  men  realized  their  limitations, 
and  did  not  presume  to  lead  me  beyond  facts 
about  which  there  could  be  no  discussions  • 
facts  that  met  every  requirement  of  my  life 
then  ;  facts  that  were  sources  of  joy  then,  and 
must  remain  to  me  as  such  until  I  have  joined 
my  unlettered  friends  ;  and  I  ask  no  better  com- 
pany, if  company  we  have,  in  the  land  of  the 
hereafter. 


The  Comfort  of  Old  Clothes. 

HOW  far  do  we  think  our  own  thoughts  •  how 
far  repeat  to  ourselves  the  thoughts  of  others, 
thinking  we  are  dealing  with  original  impres- 
sions ?  Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun  ? 
It  is  an  open  question,  but  there  are  some 
things  remaining  among  us  that  are  old — as 
one's  old  clothes.  For  one  I  am  thankful — 
not  an  ever-present  sensation — for  my  share  ; 
but  we  all  have  them,  inasmuch  as  not  until 
garments  are  old  do  we  lay  them  aside.  When 
they  are  worn  out,  in  my  neighbors'  estimation, 
I  begin  to  love  clothes  dearly.  Not  until  every 
trace  of  newness  is  gone  are  they  an  essential 
part  of  me ;  in  other  words,  do  we  become  ac- 
quainted and  work  in  perfect  harmony.  We 
are  righteously  indignant  when  unreasonably 
restrained  ;  patience  at  such  a  time  being  but 
admission  that  we  are  weaklings  and  require  a 
guardian.  I,  for  one,  have  no  time  to  spend  in 
236 


The  Comfort  of  Old  Clothes.      237 

bending  the  tailor's  lack  of  skill  to  the  shape 
of  my  shoulders,  and  new  clothes  are  valueless, 
an  infliction,  metal  yet  in  the  ore,  until  they  be- 
come old,  and  then  their  value  is  inestimable. 
Rebel  as  I  will  against  having  aught  to  do  with 
it,  I  have  at  intervals  to  conquer  this  obnoxious 
newness,  and  perhaps  I  am  fairly  well  repaid  ; 
but  then  comes  the  hour  of  my  trial.  When  I 
have  come  off  conqueror  and  more  than  con- 
queror, I  am  told  that  I  need  a  new  suit ;  or,  in 
plain  English,  the  recent  torture  is  to  be  re- 
peated. But  I  am  not  conquered.  I  am  rich 
now  in  that  I  have  two  old  coats,  and  there  shall 
be  no  divorcement.  Until  death  do  us  part,  as 
young  people  promise,  so  I  promise  myself. 
The  world  may  go  hang,  but  I  will  be  happy  as 
a  king.  My  coat  knows  me  and  I  know  my 
coat.  It  is  not  mere  toleration  on  either  part, 
but  mutual  good-will  and  respect.  It  is  a  whim 
of  mine  to  believe  my  old  coats  are  happy  be- 
cause they  fit,  and  I  am  happy  that  they  are  an 
aid  and  not  a  hinderance.  A  man  is  known  by 
the  company  he  keeps,  so  let  me  be  known  by 
my  close  association  with  old  clothes.  If  you 
that  worship  immaculate  cloth  and  glory  in  the 


238          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

newness  thereof  chance  to  see  me  coming,  walk 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  Do  not  seek, 
but  shun  me.  I  am  too  happy  to  be  disturbed. 
Do  not  talk  to  me  about  coats  fitting  as 
neatly  to  the  body  as  the  bark  of  a  beech-tree 
to  the  trunk  thereof.  My  skin  does  that,  and 
what  I  ask  for  in  a  coat  is  the  loose  and  careless 
hang  of  the  lichens  that  find  lodgement  on  the 
beech's  bark,  or  the  moss  that  rests  lightly  at 
the  roots  of  the  tree.  There  is  a  fine  old  sassa- 
fras that  stands  before  me  whenever,  at  home,  I 
turn  eastward,  going  out  of  doors.  From  top 
to  toe  it  is  draped  with  a  creeping  vine  that 
hangs  in  graceful  folds  ;  the  tree  a  noble  Ro- 
man, with  an  artistic  toga.  That  tree  tells  me 
daily  how  desirable  is  flexibility  in  clothing,  and 
yet  I  am  urged — and  sometimes  submit — to  an 
unyielding  collar  that  tortures  my  neck,  and  box 
in  my  wrists  as  if  every  bone  was  broken  and 
needed  artificial  support.  It  is  bad  enough  to 
be  really  injured  and  have  to  be  boxed  up  and 
braced  until  the  bones  are  knitted  and  strong 
again,  but  to  imitate  all  this  and  to  be  be-col- 
lared,  be-cuffed,  and  be-bosomed  by  a  laundry- 
man  and  then  smile  and  be  happy  is  really 


The  Comfort  of  Old  Clothes.      239 

beyond  my  power.  I  do  not  criticise  my  neigh- 
bors, but  I  do  ask  and  insist  for  myself  flexi- 
bility of  covering,  and  indulge  in  no  end  of 
honest,  outspoken  profanity  when  I  cannot 
have  it.  We  do  not  value  our  independence 
sufficiently.  The  world  is  not  yet  powerful 
enough  to  down  genuine  talent.  To  a  certain 
extent  every  man  can  be  a  law  unto  himself 
and  yet  not  a  failure  in  the  race  of  life.  His 
clothing  can  come  within  the  limit.  Let  him 
wear  his  coat  honestly.  Let  his  proper  self 
shine  through  that  coat  to  the  pleasure  and 
profit  of  his  friends,  and  the  antique  cut  of  the 
garment  will  not  be  an  eyesore  unto  them.  If 
it  is,  then  your  coat  more  than  yourself  is 
valued,  and  your  friends  can  be  dispensed  with 
without  serious  loss  to  yourself.  He  who  is  re- 
belliously  disposed  and  possesses  an  inquiring 
mind  will  be  astonished  at  the  reception  such 
views  will  meet  with  from  his  fellow-freemen. 
Free  ?  However  smooth  the  current,  let  but  the 
tiniest  twig  fall  upon  it  and  its  surface  is  ruf- 
fled ;  so  the  bare  mention  of  a  counter-current 
thought  disturbs  at  once  the  placid  serenity  of 
our  spiritless  compliance  to  whatsoever  has  been 


240  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


laid  down  as  law.  Once,  when  1  spoke  of  the 
comfort  of  old  clothes,  not  a  friend  but  frowned, 
looking  anxiously  at  his  broadcloth,  and  daintily 
tweaked  the  spear-points  of  his  faultless  collar. 

Old  clothes,  not  out-worn  or  threadbare  or 
offensively  soiled,  but  old  in  the  sense  of 
adapted  or  ripened,  so  that  your  coat  is  con- 
formable, an  extra-cuticular  garment  that  is  twin 
to  your  skin  and  not  a  veneer  merely  that  is 
cross-grained  and  rebellious,  contesting  every 
extension  and  expansion  of  the  wrinkles  Nature 
has  given  the  only  covering  she  allows  you  on 
your  entrance  into  this  vale  of  sorrows.  We 
take  time  to  do  everything  that  we  must  do,  to 
live  ;  and  why  not  allow  time  for  your  coat  to 
settle  to  a  realization  of  what  is  expected  of  it  ? 
Occasionally  a  mania  for  that  which  is  old  takes 
strong  possession  of  a  community,  and  many  a 
mortal  wishes  first  and  then  swears  that  he  does 
belong  to  an  old  family;  so  why  not  extend 
this  merit  of  age  to  more  of  life's  minor  con- 
siderations than  we  do.  We  prattle  in  a  childish 
way  about  old  friends  and  old  associations,  as 
if  necessity  was  a  common  feature  of  mankind  ; 
so  why  not  some  other  matters.  Grandfather's 


The  Comfort  of  Old  Clothes.      241 

clock  tells  the  hours  more  musically  than  does 
a  cheap  Yankee  rattle-trap  that  ticks  in  a  way 
suggestive  of  Walt  Whitman's  barbaric  yawp, — 
so,  I  say,  why  so  impatient  when  old  clothes  are 
mentioned?  Scott,  in  the  "Surgeon's  Daugh- 
ter," makes  a  character  in  the  story  remark,  "  Old 
recollections  are  like  old  clothes  and  should  be 
sent  off  wholesale."  I  do  not  believe  it.  The 
future  is  unknowable,  we  live  only  in  the  present, 
but  we  have  come  out  of  the  past,  and  so  long 
as  I  keep  dragging  myself  out  of  this  past  I  pur- 
pose pulling  my  old  coat  with  me,  nor  ask  when 
I  shall  let  go  my  hold  and  renew  the  vexations 
incident  to  the  putting  on  of  a  new  garment. 

Not  long  since  I  was  poking  about  in  the 
mud,  tracing  the  course  of  a  mole  that  had 
burrowed  and  uplifted  the  earth  directly  after 
a  prolonged  midwinter  rain,  when  I  was  im- 
periously hailed  by  a  stranger  and  asked  who 
lived  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  pointing  with  his 
carriage  whip  directly  towards  my  house.  I 
meekly  replied  "  I  do,"  and  watched  the  move- 
ments of  a  black-hawk  that  was  sailing  past. 

"  I  don't  mean  the  tenant  house,"  the  stranger 
replied,  impatiently. 

10 


242  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

"There  is  none  on  the  place,"  I  remarked, 
poking  into  a  hole  in  the  ground,  where  pos- 
sibly lurked  a  meadow-mouse. 

"This  is  where  Dr.  Abbott  lives,  is  it  not?" 
the  stranger  then  asked  in  a  more  natural  tone, 
for  I  saw  he  had  been  putting  on  airs. 

"  It  is,"  I  replied. 

"  Do  you  know  if  he  is  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  know  that  he  is  not,"  was  my  answer. 

The  stranger  looked  much  disappointed  ;  and 
as  he  had  evidently  hired  a  horse  at  the  livery 
and  was  not  some  nearby  chatterbox,  I  felt 
moved  to  tell  him  all  the  truth,  and  so,  after  a 
pause,  added,  "  I  am  the  man  you  wish  to  see." 

His  "Oh  !"  still  rings  in  my  ears. 

We  had  a  pleasant  afternoon,  and  I  learned 
more  from  him  than  he  gathered  from  my  words, 
and  I  do  not  feel  mortified  to  have  been  found 
in  a  mud-bespattered  coat.  It  is  astonishing 
how  constantly  some  people  are  "mortified," 
but  I  have  noted  that  the  process  never  goes 
even  skin  deep,  for  now  these  many  years,  it  is 
not  yet  to  be  detected  beyond  mere  words, 
which  I  hold  as  lightly  as  I  value  the  comfort 
of  old  clothes. 


,-«rt- iiiis,-    •  .,"«'J 


In  Deep,  Dark   Woods. 

FEW  men  and  a  forest ;  many  men  and  a 
desert.  So  it  seems,  to  the  regret  of  those  who 
have  a  greater  liking  for  Nature  than  for  arti- 
ficiality ;  for  the  earth  with  Nature  as  a  caretaker 
rather  than  endless  fields  under  man's  super- 
vision. Woods  both  deep  and  dark  are  not  of 
necessity  a  matter  of  long  ago,  known  to  us  but 
by  hearsay,  nor  need  they  be  boundless  in  ex- 
tent or  the  growth  of  centuries.  Nature  can 
readily  rebuild  when  man  relinquishes  his  hold, 
and  though  the  farmer  has  drained  the  last  drop 
of  life-blood  from  the  long-suffering  soil,  Nature 
knows  where  the  overlooked  springs  of  fertility 
lie  hidden,  and,  seeking  their  aid,  by  her  chemic 
art  distils  vigor  from  earth  and  air  that  defy 
man's  efforts.  Let  him  withdraw,  and,  on  the 
barren  soil  amid  the  few  foul  weeds  that  stand, 
suggestive  grave-marks  to  departed  worth,  anew 
will  spring  up  the  pine  and  beach  and  oak.  I 

243 


244          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

have  seen  a  flourishing  mulberry  that  had  forced 
its  way  through  a  neglected  pavement.  A  deep 
dark  woods  may  be  a  new  forest ;  clustered 
trees,  not  older  than  the  rambler  that  lingers  in 
their  shade,  yet  literally  dark  and  deep,  for  a 
narrow  strip  of  woodland  may  be  both  if  you 
stand  at  one  end  and  only  look  towards  the 
other.  We  need  a  little  tact  when  giving  a 
loose  rein  to  the  imagination.  As  children  say, 
we  must  "make  believe,"  and  by  so  doing  a 
dozen  acres  are  as  suggestive  as  that  many  square 
miles.  We  must  concern  ourselves  with  what 
is  near  at  hand  and  distinctly  in  view,  not  bother 
about  the  boundaries  ;  study  the  hub  and  spokes 
of  the  wheel,  and  not  wonder  about  the  mud 
on  the  tire. 

It  may  be  well  to  realize,  before  you  enter, 
that  here,  as  in  the  open,  you  are  not  a  lord  of 
creation,  but  one  of  many  in  a  mixed  crowd, 
and  not  a  very  important  one  at  that.  No  tree 
steps  aside  at  your  approach  nor  moves  a  limb 
from  your  path  if  it  happens  to  obstruct  it. 
You  must  pick  and  push  your  way  through,  and 
if  a  bended  branch  can  fly  back  and  strike 
you,  it  will  do  so  and  stands  unmoved  however 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  245 

fiercely  you  may  frown.  It  lessens  the  conceit 
that  mars  every  man  to  walk  in  the  woods. 
The  fact  that  these  trees  are  here  by  right  and 
you  are  an  intruder  is  very  forcibly  set  before 
you.  Nevertheless  a  forest  is  not  inhospitable. 
A  dead  tree  may  fall  and  crush  you,  but  that 
was  because  you  were  not  forelearned  in  wood- 
lore.  If  killed  or  maimed,  it  was  not  through 
malice  aforethought  Satisfaction,  in  this  world, 
is  too  rare  to  miss  any  opportunity  to  acquire 
even  a  trace  of  it,  so  take  what  you  can  from 
the  gruesome  thought  that  a  dead  branch  of  a 
tree  may  fall  on  you,  but  the  result  is  purely 
accidental.  There  is  really  something  in  the 
thought,  if  it  cannot  mend  a  broken  head. 

On  the  excellent  principle  of  "  contented  wi' 
little  and  cantie  wi'  mair,"  I  have  been  wander- 
ing in  the  woods,  and  here,  let  me  say,  even  a 
single  tree  means  a  vast  deal  on  a  hot,  sunny 
summer  day.  The  difference  in  temperature 
from  sunshine  to  shade  is  often  startling. 
Under  some  lone  amid-field  oak  the  coolness 
of  October  lingers,  though  it  is  tropical  beyond 
the  tree's  shadow.  What  a  tree  means  is  not 
to  be  realized  in  a  moment,  so,  how  hopeless, 


246          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

even  in  a  lifetime,  to  attempt  to  solve  the 
problems  of  a  forest !  It  is  far  more  satisfactory 
to  study  ten  oaks  for  ten  years  than  gallop 
on  horseback  through  a  grove  of  ten  thousand. 
If  you  must  satisfy  the  modern  mania  for  num- 
bers, take  to  counting  the  leaves.  It  needs  but 
a  few  trees  to  give  you  one  million  or  more. 
What  has  just  been  said  of  content  is  something 
more  than  a  catchy  phrase. 

There  are  other  than  laboratory  methods  of 
studying  Nature,  and  he  is  lacking  who  can  sit 
at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree  and  get  no  hints  of 
what  the  tree  signifies  as  part  of  the  world's 
stupendous  whole.  It  is  something  more  than 
fuel  or  lumber,  for  it  is  the  living  tree  with 
which  he  is  or  ought  to  be  dealing.  How  very 
different,  as  a  specimen  impression,  one  of  a 
hundred,  are  the  trunks  of  our  deciduous  forests! 
It  is  only  the  oaks  that  offer  me  a  comfortable 
resting-place  on  their  roots.  They  offer  both 
seats  and  backs  of  a  very  easy  chair,  but  the 
beeches  and  birches,  backs  only.  The  curiously 
twisted  roots,  with  deeply  grooved  bark,  like 
models  of  the  Colorado  canon,  extend  in  many 
directions  from  the  oaks  of  my  home  hill-side, 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  247 

and  might  readily  be  classified  as  the  furniture 
dealer  does  the  chairs,  sofas,  and  couches  of  his 
stock  in  trade.  I  have  them  all  here,  and  if 
not  elaborately  upholstered,  they  are  at  least 
strongly  put  together,  equal  to  all  reasonable 
demands  upon  them,  and  can  we  say  this  of  all 
the  joiner-work  that  finds  place  in  houses  ?  No 
oak-root  chairs  have  ever  creaked  because  I  sat 
down  too  suddenly,  but  if  they  did  there  would 
follow  no  black  looks  from  the  hostess  because 
of  my  lack  of  care.  To  sit  in  the  woods,  then, 
and  on  a  safe  and  sound  seat,  has  this  additional 
merit,  we  do  not  sit  in  silence,  even  if  we  so 
elect.  If  no  living  creature  comes  to  at  least 
so  much  as  look  at  you,  your  own  thoughts  will 
keep  you  company.  The  wind  that  gently  stirs 
the  branches  of  a  forest  will  make  you  think, 
however  assiduously  you  may  court  dreamless 
sleep,  and  thoughts  born  in  such  a  place,  at 
such  a  time,  are  never  unworthy  of  your  better 
self.  Is  it  true  that  you  cannot,  however  hard 
you  try,  think  when  alone  in  deep,  dark  woods  ? 
Be  careful  how  you  admit  it,  lest  it  be  wondered 
if  you  ever  think  at  all. 

So  suggestive   is  every  woodland  tract  that 


248  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

the  approach  thereto  is  not  to  be  overlooked  be- 
cause we  are  bent  upon  penetrating  its  recesses. 
Against  the  dark  background  of  my  present 
outlook,  formed  by  the  rim  of  a  small  but 
ancient  wood,  I  see  the  restless  herons  that 
look  black  as  crows,  passing  from  their  nesting 
trees  in  an  upland  sink-hole  to  the  meadows. 
They  make  so  pretty  a  picture  that  I  forget  the 
background  for  a  time,  and  am  reminded  of  it 
when  a  wary  crow  dashes  impetuously  by  or 
darts  from  sight  through  some  slight  opening 
in  the  leafy  wall,  or  a  woodland  bird  seeks  the 
upper  air  and  then  sinks  into  the  green  depths 
beneath  it.  As  usual,  when  out  of  doors  I  am 
indebted  to  some  bird  for  what  I  most  value  of 
out-door  knowledge,  and  I  remember  that  be- 
fore me,  though  hidden  as  yet,  is  a  winding 
roadway,  gloomy  and  long  neglected,  but  a 
roadway  still,  though  those  who  habitually  used 
it  have  been  dead  for  a  century.  While  yet 
afield,  I  always  notice  with  more  than  idle  curi- 
osity any  long  forest  wall.  Somewhat  strangely, 
it  does  not  give  the  impression  of  an  obstruction 
to  progress  in  that  direction,  as  does  your  neigh- 
bor's fence  with  "keep  off"  dotted  over  it. 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  249 

The  woods  you  come  to,  seen  from  the  open 
fields,  is  not  a  mere  barrier  to  further  fieldward 
progress,  but  the  beginning  of  a  new  order  of 
things,  and,  much  as  I  love  the  open  fields,  I 
am  moved  to  say,  a  better  order.  It  is  with  a 
sense  of  relief  I  enter  a  woodland  tract.  The 
trace  of  the  primeval  savage,  still  lingering  in 
human  nature,  comes  to  the  surface  when  we 
breathe  the  woodsy  air  with  its  subtle  distillation 
of  undiscoverable  sweets,  and  then  leaving  the 
mossy  ground,  and  taking  a  seat  on  some  ex- 
tended limb,  what  endless  fancies  in  the  brief 
hour  of  an  arboreal  existence  !  The  passion 
for  tree-climbing  so  pronounced  in  youth  is  a 
serious  loss  when  discarded  in  our  maturer 
years.  The  whole  face  of  the  country  changes 
at  fifty  feet  from  the  ground,  but  who  at  fifty 
ventures  to  climb  a  tree  ?  More's  the  pity,  for 
pleasures  are  not  too  many  that  even  one  can 
be  spared. 

Occasionally  an  exploratory  impulse  takes 
hold  of  me  and  I  lose  myself  in  a  wilderness 
of  tangled  underbrush,  having  only  so  much 
sky  above  me  as  the  interlacing  of  tree-tops 
permits.  Nor  is  this  child's  play.  We  have 


250          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

but  to  consider  for  a  moment  the  depth,  height, 
and  width  of  our  ignorance  even  of  the  garden's 
gooseberry  hedge  to  effectually  cure  us  of  walk- 
ing with  the  air  of  a  philosopher  in  the  deep, 
dark  woods.  When  an  oak  has  whispered  all 
the  secrets  of  the  plant  world  we  can  hope  to 
ramble  understandingly  in  field  or  forest,  and 
not  before. 

Having  entered  the  woods,  the  new  atmos- 
phere revives  the  sluggish  senses  that  have 
wearied  of  sunny  fields.  Appreciation  of  de- 
tails takes  the  place  of  vague  generalization. 
At  this  point  stands  a  sentinel  tulip-tree,  a  land- 
mark for  miles  around  it  No  human  structure 
commands  such  instant  attention.  A  procession 
winding  among  cathedral  pillars  is  but  a  tawdry 
imitation  of  the  vine  clinging  to  its  towering 
trunk,  and  wheezy  music  from  a  loft  a  sorry 
echo  of  the  morning  breeze.  Yet  how  meagre 
a  congregation  has  even  an  aged  tree,  even  one 
that  has  sheltered  the  homestead  for  generations. 
Rarely  do  we  see  two  or  three  even  gathered  to 
consider  it,  and  when  such  gathering  occurs  it 
is  not  always  fit  audience  though  few.  When 
Philander  Pointblank,  a  quaint  character  of 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  251 

years  ago,  persisted  in  sitting  in  the  shade  of 
the  old  oak  in  the  meeting-house  yard,  while 
the  Friends  were  gathered  in  the  building,  he 
was  not  so  illogical  as  his  people  thought  him. 
He  maintained  that  the  shade  of  a  living  oak 
was  as  fit  a  spot  wherein  to  worship  as  "  a  pen 
made  of  the  carcasses  of  a  hundred  dead  ones." 
Philander  was  long  a  concern  upon  the  minds 
of  his  co-religionists,  and  it  is  rather  noteworthy 
that  he  alone  of  his  contemporaries  is  remem- 
bered. Not  like  so  many,  too  near  to  nothing 
to  be  friends  or  foes.  Extremely  ignorant,  men 
call  him  ;  but  I  hold  him  as  a  real  philosopher. 
Not  because  of  his  fancy  for  the  old  oak,  but 
because  of  that  infatuation  which  will  not  admit 
that  in  all  things  art  is  an  improvement  over 
Nature.  Philander  Pointblank  knew  both  inti- 
mately and  remained  loyal  to  the  out-door 
world.  The  tears  that  he  shed  when  the  light- 
ning destroyed  the  favorite  oak  of  his  little 
woodland  tract  were  more  honest  than  many 
his  neighbors  have  shed  at  funerals.  When  I 
said  as  much  in  my  address  at  Philander's 
funeral,  there  was  a  great  raising  of  eyebrows 
and  some  shuffling  of  feet,  but  no  one  was 


252  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

candid  enough  to  admit  the  truth  of  my  asser- 
tion ;  strong  negative  evidence  that  what  I  said 
was  true. 

Beyond  the  entrance  to  this  ancient  wood, 
where  grass  gives  way  to  patches  of  gray  moss, 
to  sphagnum  ;  where  the  water  lies  in  pools, 
and  lichens  so  wrinkled  and  dead  white  they 
suggest  fragments  of  cast-off  skin  rather  than  a 
living  growth  ;  underbrush,  shrubs  of  a  dozen 
species,  and  a  bewildering  array  of  tree-trunks. 
The  latter  are  as  individual  as  men  upon  a 
crowded  street.  It  is  more  difficult  to  find  two 
alike  than  to  note  a  marked  resemblance  among 
people.  Then,  never  to  be  overlooked,  in  every 
sense,  is  the  leafy  canopy,  effectual  against  the 
direct  rays  of  the  sun  to  such  degree  that  a  dim 
but  not  obscuring  light  prevails  ;  one  that  opens 
your  eyes  and  leads  to  quicker  perception  of 
the  objects  crowded  about  you.  Less  escapes 
one's  notice  now  than  in  the  glaring  sunshine 
of  the  open  fields.  The  white  of  many  a  wood- 
land blossom  fairly  glows,  and  every  purple  or 
rosy  bloom  likewise  glows  with  a  warmth  not 
common  to  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  or  the 
roadside.  Dogwood,  in  May,  when  the  foliage 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  253 

is  fully  grown,  fairly  glitters  with  stars  that 
may  be  seen  half  a  mile  away.  The  pink  azalea, 
when  seen  against  a  background  of  dark  mosses, 
stands  out  so  boldly  that  not  the  deepest  shadows 
of  densest  forest  growth  obscures  their  outline, 
and  what  jolly  sport  to  trace  a  grape-vine  from 
its  anchorage  to  the  airy  terminations  in  some 
distant  tree-top  !  It  is  not  well  to  give  the 
measurements  that  I  have  recorded  in  note- 
books. Let  him  who  is  curious  solve  the  prob- 
lem of  a  grape-vine's  whereabouts  when  lost 
among  the  branches  of  old  trees,  and  determine, 
too,  the  length  of  the  vine  as  it  twists  and  turns 
and  returns,  and  shoots  upward  again.  This 
following  of  a  long  serpent-like  growth  leads  to 
curious  places  and  unsuspected  conditions,  and 
the  truth  is  brought  to  us  that  trees  are  some- 
thing more  than  trunk  and  branches.  If  it  is 
in  early  summer,  the  chances  are  that  you  will 
be  led  to  some  cunningly  concealed  nest  of  a 
vireo,  and  it  was  while  tracing  a  grape-vine 
that  I  found  my  first  nest  of  a  blue-gray 
gnatcatcher — a  rare  find  here — high  up  in  a 
tulip-tree.  Before  I  saw  the  nest  I  had  neither 
seen  nor  heard  the  birds,  although  passing  near 


254          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

by,  for  weeks,  almost  every  day  ;  and,  of  course, 
this  is  likely  to  prove  true  of  other  vines,  a  fact 
all  too  apt  to  be  overlooked.  The  poison-ivy 
climbs  to  the  very  top  of  many  a  large  tree  and 
in  time  appears  to  smother  it.  This  growth, 
like  a  huge  hairy  serpent,  clings  so  tenaciously 
to  some  oaks  I  have  seen  that  all  my  strength 
was  necessary  to  detach  it.  It  certainly  ap- 
pears, in  time,  to  kill  the  tree  it  encircles,  but  I 
am  not  positive  ;  but  this  is  not  true  of  the 
Virginia  creeper.  Near  my  home  is  a  sassafras, 
just  seventy  feet  high,  and  for  twenty  years  the 
creeper  has  mingled  its  leaves  with  those  of  the 
tree's  outermost  and  uppermost  twigs.  When 
the  autumnal  coloring  occurs,  there  is  a  min- 
gling of  dark  red  and  yellow  that  is  worth  a 
day's  journey  to  see. 

The  dim  light  of  deep,  dark  woods  has  been 
much  written  about,  but  it  is  dimness  that  does 
not  obscure.  I  have  found  it  a  developing  light 
that  brings  the  minor  details  into  satisfactory 
prominence.  If  color  is  important  in  determin- 
ing the  identity  of  an  object,  we  can  be  sure  in 
the  woods,  when  it  would  be  a  matter  of  doubt 
in  the  open  fields.  This  is  peculiarly  true  of 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  255 


the  birds  about  us.  I  have  seen  many  a  cardi- 
nal, tanager,  and  rose-breasted  grosbeak  that 
looked  black  as  night  in  the  open  fields,  but 
there  is  no  mistaking  their  colors  when  flitting 
across  our  path  here  in  the  woods.  Let  a  car- 
dinal red-bird  perch  on  a  low  branch,  in  full 
view,  and  red  he  will  appear,  as  he  proves  to 
your  delighted  ear  his  claim  to  past  master  in 
the  art  of  whistling.  The  brown  and  white  of 
the  melancholy  thrush,  even  of  the  little  tree- 
creeper,  can  be  traced  feather  by  feather,  and 
the  passing  warblers,  spotted  and  streaked  like 
the  harlequins,  show  themselves  in  their  true 
colors  when  in  the  woods.  There  is  no  glare 
of  the  sun's  direct  light  to  bewilder  you,  to 
blind  you  for  the  moment,  when  you  could  best 
have  seen  the  restless  bird.  So  accurately  ad- 
justed are  your  senses  to  their  surroundings 
that  life  and  the  world  take  on  a  new  meaning. 
The  song  of  a  bird  is  so  delightful  that  it  might 
seem  at  first  thought  that  the  conditions  under 
which  it  is  heard  were  quite  immaterial.  Sitting 
on  a  porch,  in  an  easy-chair,  with  the  purple 
light  of  the  dying  day  making  fairy-land  alike 
of  all  the  outlook,  the  matchless  strains  of  the 


256  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


thrush's  evening  song  heard  upon  the  upland 
lawn  may  seem  the  climax  of  kind  Nature's 
melody ;  but  wander  at  this  time  to  the  nearest 
woodland  tract ;  rest  by  the  trunks  of  majestic 
time-honored  beeches,  known  as  "  the  Three 
Beeches"  so  long  ago  as  1689,  where  the  shade 
at  noontide  is  scarcely  less  sombre  than  the 
shadows  of  night,  and  hear  this  same  song  of 
the  evening  thrush,  or  listen  to  the  rosebreast 
as  he  breathes  his  love  strain  to  his  hidden 
mate  ;  yes,  hear  even  the*  forest  peewee  or  the 
dream  song  of  a  sparrow,  and  there  will  be  re- 
vealed to  you  what  magic,  that  spurs  to  full 
activity  our  every  sense,  lies  in  the  dim  but 
searching  light  of  deep,  dark  woods. 

I  suppose  the  woods  in  winter  figure  more 
in  literature  than  in  the  actual  experiences  of 
readers.  These  same  woods  are  just  as  deep, 
but  not  so  dark,  during  the  pleasant  days  of 
January,  and  particularly  after  a  deep  snow. 
The  arctic  conditions  are  now  all  underfoot  or 
immediately  about  us,  and  a  thoroughly  cheer- 
ful, if  not  exactly  summery,  condition  overhead. 
Certainly  there  is  no  suggestion  of  gloom  Tar- 
tarian which  few  can  rid  of  hobgoblins  ;  this  is 


Woods  during  pleasant  January  days. 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  257 


a  matter  more  natural  to  leafy  June,  absurd  as 
it  really  is,  but  now,  even  if  forced  to  wallow  in 
deep  snow  that  blots  out  the  familiar  beaten 


path,  still  your  reward  is  certain.  The  woods 
in  winter  !  There  is  a  ring  in  the  very  words 
that  is  exhilarating.  The  individuality  of  every 
tree  is  now  pronounced.  The  smooth,  wrinkled, 
17 


258          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


dark  and  light  barks  are  distinct,  and  each  asks 
for  consideration  based  on  its  own  merits,  and 
not  as  an  humble  factor  in  the  production  of 
a  general  effect.  The  lichened,  mottled  gray  of 
oaks  suggesting  comfort  rather  than  conformity 
to  fashion ;  the  tight-fitting  uniform  of  the 
stately  beech ;  the  ragged  yellow  birch  that 
flaunts  its  tatters  as  if  proud  to  wear  them  ; 
here,  surely,  are  variety  and  proud  independence 
worthy  of  your  attention.  Here,  now,  are  these 
trees  as  we  see  gatherings  of  men.  They  are 
not  bare  in  the  sense  of  nakedness  ;  the  leaves 
are  gone,  but  this  is  simply  the  doffing  of  hat 
and  cloak.  In  winter,  in  the  woods,  with  snow 
a  foot  deep,  I  can  talk  to  a  tree  as  I  would  to 
my  neighbor,  meeting  him  at  his  ease,  in-doors. 
It  may  seem  a  childish  whim  to  talk  to  trees  ; 
literally,  it  is  ;  but  trees  can  tell  us  a  great  deal  ii 
we  will  only  stop  by  them  for  a  moment  This 
hollow  oak  has  a  nest  ol  squirrels  twenty  feet 
above  me,  a  fact  worth  knowing,  and  the  tree 
has  this  same  fact  written  out  upon  its  trunk. 
The  snow  is  scattered  about,  but  not  by  wind, 
and  everywhere  is  foot-marked  in  a  tell-tale 
way.  This  gnarly  old  sour  gum-tree  has  an 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  259 

opossum  sleeping  soundly  among  its  roots,  and 
the  creature's  curiosity  in  looking  out  in  the 
night  to  judge  of  the  weather  has  been  re 
corded.  You  might  not  have  noticed  this,  but 
some  eyes  are  keener  than  others,  and  a  hunter 
would  have  marked  the  spot.  It  seems  that 
not  every  chestnut  burr  was  opened  and  fell  to 
the  ground  months  ago.  Here  is  one  that  has 
been  dropped  since  the  snow  fell,  and  yet  no 
chestnut-tree  is  very  near.  Squirrels  again,  and 
somewhere  there  is  a  hoard  of  food  ;  but  no, 
burrs  are  not  gathered,  and  the  animals  have 
found  this  burr  lodged  among  the  branches  and 
tossed  it  down  in  play.  After  a  snow-storm,  if 
there  has  been  no  wind,  whatsoever  lies  upon  it 
comes  there  through  some  animal's  intervention. 
As  to  every  tree  in  the  woods,  it  is  desirable 
to  look  at  it  from  all  points  of  view  to  learn  all 
it  has  to  tell  you.  To  look  up  only  is  to  see 
the  under  side  of  every  branch,  but  what  of  the 
upper  side  ?  Resting  there  may  be  some  in- 
teresting creature  peeping  shyly  over  the  edge 
and  watching  you.  If  you  climb  to  the  tops 
of  trees  and  look  down,  the  woods  will  tell  you 
quite  another  story.  The  chances  are  you  can- 


260  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

not  do  this,  but  do  not  say  a  tree  or  any  cluster 
of  them  has  little  or  nothing  to  tell  until  you 
have  done  so.  The  silent  man  is  not  necessarily 
he  who  has  least  to  say. 

I  have  said  that  when  the  sun  shone  it  was 
almost  summery  above  our  heads,  if  not  about 
our  feet.  Many  a  bird  finds  it  so,  and  as  every 
sound  comes  to  you  now  peculiarly  distinct,  it 
is  something  worth  the  while  to  hear  a  bird  sing, 
even  to  hear  a  passing  snow-bird  chirp,  and,  too, 
what  endless  amusement  in  that  ceaseless  com- 
edy of  the  persecuting  crows  and  the  patient 
hawk ;  an  unused  opportunity  for  some  orni- 
thological Shakespeare.  A  word  more  of  these 
unfailing  friends  of  mine,  the  clamorous  crows. 
"Occasionally,"  writes  Lucretius,  "the  long- 
lived  generations  of  crows  .  .  .  change  their 
hoarse  notes  with  the  weather,  when  they  are 
said  (sometimes)  to  call  for  rain  and  showers  and 
sometimes  to  cry  for  gales  of  wind."  Of  a 
clear,  sunny,  midwinter  day,  as  they  pass  over 
these  woods  or  alight  in  the  branches  of  the 
trees,  they  seem  to  be  moved  by  pure  joy  in 
the  fact  of  living,  so  rich,  so  content-full  and 
eager  is  their  every  utterance.  I  call  my  winter 


In  Deep,  Dark  Woods.  261 

crows  good  company ;  friends  that  meet  me 
half-way,  and  speak  from  their  hearts  ;  no  mere 
mouthing  of  meaningless  formalities.  Then,  as 
if  to  shame  poor,  shivering  humanity  that  all  too 
likely  hugs  the  stove  all  day,  a  kinglet,  almost 
our  smallest  bird,  may  come  and  chirp  so  cheer- 
fully that  you  are  moved  to  whistle  in  reply. 
Surely  it  is  of  some  significance  that  shrews, 
our  smallest  mammals,  and  kinglets  and  winter 
wrens  and  the  blessed  chickadee,  are  as  full  of 
fun  in  January,  with  the  mercury  at  zero,  as  ever 
a  summer  songster  in  the  month  of  June. 

Summer  or  winter,  my  love  of  trees  is  un- 
alterable, ineradicable. 

"The  purple  color  of  the  murex  so  blends 
in  one  body  with  wool  that  it  can  never  be  ex- 
tracted from  it ;  not  even  if  you  should  strive 
to  restore  the  wool  to  its  whiteness  with  all  the 
waves  of  the  sea ;  not  even  if  the  whole  ocean, 
with  all  its  floods,  should  be  disposed  to  cleanse 
it." 


Correspondents   and   Critics. 

ON  the  last  day  of  the  year,  unless  plagued 
with  the  feeling  that  I  have  something  better  to 
do,  I  clear  the  cavernous  pigeon-holes  of  my 
desk  of  the  letters  that  have,  for  a  twelve- 
month, been  accumulating.  It  is  not  an  alto- 
gether amusing  way  of  passing  an  hour.  A 
good  many  annoying  thoughts  return,  for  not 
every  correspondent  is  reasonable  or  critic  fair. 
I  never  have  called  back  a  dead  year  with  un- 
mixed satisfaction ;  the  sky  is  only  clear  in 
places,  and  ghosts  of  many  clouds,  some  very 
black  indeed,  float  by,  with  all  the  distinctness 
of  the  actual  happening.  But,  in  the  long  run, 
I  feel  as  if  a  load  was  lifted  from  my  shoulders 
when,  having  seen  the  accumulation  of  letters 
turned  to  ashes,  I  take  a  brisk  walk  over  the 
meadows  and  return  to  my  empty  desk.  I  re- 
turn, remembering,  "You  shall  have  time  to 
wrangle  in  when  you  have  nothing  else  to  do," 
262 


Correspondents  and  Critics.         263 

and  the  new  year  comes  swiftly,  as  I  determine 
to  "  cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  canst  not 
help,  and  study  help  for  that  which  thou  la- 
ment' st." 

Indulging,  this  New  Year's  eve,  in  retro- 
spection before  putting  good  resolutions  to  a 
practical  test,  I  have  thought  that  it  is  not  an 
unmixed  blessing  that  postage  is  so  cheap.  In 
that  far-off  day  when  to  send  a  letter,  if  pre- 
paid, meant  an  expenditure  of  twenty-five  cents, 
most  people  thought  twice  or  thrice  before  sit- 
ting down  to  announce  that  they  took  their  pens 
in  hand,  and  the  world  was  happy  then  :  per- 
haps happy  as  now.  Many  people  were  forced, 
because  of  the  expense,  to  keep  themselves 
unto  themselves,  and  I  would  that  this  were  now 
more  true  of  them.  We  cannot  limit  our  cor- 
respondents as  we  can  our  acquaintances,  and  I 
have  occasionally  wondered,  with,  I  think,  good 
reason,  why  I  am  singled  out  as  the  victim  of 
queer  correspondents,  as  they  appear  to  me. 
Never  intentionally  have  I  forced  myself  upon 
any  stranger's  attention,  but  strangers  have 
found  me  out,  and  an  occasional  remarkable 
letter  is  the  result.  Why  I  keep  these  com- 


264  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

munications,  I  do  not  know.  Why  I  answered 
any  of  them  is  beyond  explanation,  but  before 
burning  the  accumulation  of  the  year  I  have 
been  reading  each  one  anew  ;  a  contradictory 
procedure  perhaps,  but  who  is  consistent  among 
us  ?  I  should  add  that  my  queer  correspond- 
ents have  found  me  out  wholly  because  there 
have  been  publishers  venturesome  enough  to 
print  certain  manuscripts  of  mine.  This  was  a 
matter  that  concerned  only  the  publishers,  but 
it  has  been  made  the  concern  of  other  people 
also,  especially  the  writers  of  certain  letters,  to 
which  I  have  referred.  A  book  is  public  prop- 
erty, but  does  the  author  also  become  public  in 
the  same  sense  ?  My  correspondents  are  mostly 
women.  Why  are  they  so  inquisitive?  I  once 
asked,  and  have  since  regretted  my  indiscretion. 
One  prominent  American  authoress  assures  me 
man  is  nothing  if  not  curious.  His  happiness 
consists  in  asking  questions.  He  verges  on  in- 
sanity if  he  is  not  satisfied,  and  his  persistence 
is  in  proportion  to  the  matter  in  question  being 
none  of  his  business.  I  stand  corrected  and  very 
humble,  but  puzzled  too,  when  I  remember  that 
nearly  all  of  my  queer  correspondents  are  women. 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        265 

Let  me  particularize.  Seven  of  my  corre- 
spondents have  inquired  anxiously  about  my 
religion.  Now,  I  take  it  that  if  there  is  one 
subject  above  another  that  is  a  purely  personal 
matter,  it  is  a  man's  way  of  thinking  on  re- 
ligious subjects.  Much  as  he  may  delight  in 
hearing  sermons  or  following  the  intricacies  of 
more  or  less  elaborate  rituals,  and  generally  as 
he  may  approve  of  this,  that,  or  the  other  sect, 
he  is,  if  truly  religious,  a  law  unto  himself,  and 
if  he  is  astray  and  ultimately  misses  heaven,  it 
is  his  loss  and  not  a  reflection  on  his  more  for- 
tunate neighbors.  It  is  scarcely  going  too  far 
to  say,  if  any  one  sees  fit  to  ignore  the  whole 
subject  and  take  the  chances,  it  is  not  the  busi- 
ness of  his  neighbors  to  interfere.  I  write  this 
without  a  trace  of  impatience  or  ill  nature.  The 
world  thinks  otherwise.  I  took  the  trouble  once 
to  say  what  I  have  just  written,  and  what  a  raking 
over  the  coals  was  the  result !  My  correspond- 
ent claimed  to  have  "a  call"  to  change  the 
current  of  my  thoughts  and  turn  me  into  an 
unfamiliar  path,  and  her  peace  of  mind  was 
only  acquired  by  a  second  communication,  still 
insisting  I  was  religiously  incorrect.  Particularly 


266  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

do  the  Friends  find  fault  with  me,  which  is  most 
strange  of  all.  I  would  an  honest  jury  could  try 
the  case,  for  I  think  I  am  more  a  Foxite  than 
foxy.  It  is  humiliating  to  think  that,  having  lived 
for  more  than  half  a  century  in  a  Quaker  atmos- 
phere, I  am  still  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land. 

Next  is  a  little  packet  of  five  letters,  all  of 
which  are  devoted  to  the  subject  of  tobacco. 
Do  I  use  it  in  any  form  ?  One  woman  antici- 
pates my  reply  by  hoping  I  will  not  indulge  in 
platitudes  on  use  and  abuse  of  the  vile  weed, 
saying,  "  no  one  can  use  it  without  its  abusing 
the  user."  It  is  idle  to  combat  fanaticism.  It  is 
best  defeated  by  allowing  it  to  work  out  its  own 
destruction.  "Thee  admits  being  a  smoker,  so 
I  cannot  purchase  another  of  thy  books."  This 
seems  incredible,  but  it  is  true  ;  and  I  wonder 
how  many  readers  would  be  lost  by  a  tirade 
against  tobacco.  Seriously,  does  the  smoke 
from  my  cigar  travel  indefinitely  far  and  offend 
the  nostrils  of  an  unknown  correspondent? 
Why  should  my  example  for  evil  be  more 
potent  than  that  of  the  individual  who  finds,  or 
fails  to  find,  his  livelihood  in  other  lines  of  ac- 
tivity? I  have  never  advised  budding  man- 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        267 


hood  to  commence  the  use  of  tobacco,  and 
would  banish  cigarettes  from  the  world, — per- 
haps fanaticism  on  my  part, — but  it  is  simply 
silly  for  well-intentioned  fanatics  to  ask  grown 
men  to  cease  to  do  that  which  does  them  no 
harm  because  youth  may  follow  in  their  foot- 
steps on  reaching  years  of  discretion.  I  feel 
that  I  am  venturing  a  little  too  far,  am  treading 
on  treacherous  ground  and  calling  down  ven- 
geance on  my  head  when  I  suggest  that  a  little 
too  much  stress  is  put  upon  this  matter  of  ex- 
posure to  temptation.  Any  youth  of  any  intel- 
lect worthy  the  name  knows  that  he  is  playing 
with  fire  when  he  reaches  the  age  at  which  the 
so-called  temptations  become  such  to  him,  and 
downfall  means  full  often  merely  a  weak  intel- 
lect, for  however  "  brainy"  a  man  may  be,  he 
is  intellectually  weak  if  he  cannot  draw  the  line 
between  use  and  abuse.  My  feeling  is,  that 
while  it  may  be  very  noble  to  be  self-sacrificing, 
the  fact  has  not  been  established  that  the  world 
has  evolved  in  this  direction.  It  may  turn  to 
such  a  channel,  but  before  it  does  I  must  con- 
tinue to  offend  some  queer  correspondents  by 
indulging  in  an  occasional  good  cigar. 


268  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

It  is  a  much  more  difficult  matter  to  com- 
ment, without  loss  of  temper,  upon  the  thirteen 
letters  received  concerning  rum.  Here  again, 
as  in  the  use  of  tobacco,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
writers  of  these  letters  had  better  have  spent 
their  energies  among  people  nearer  their  own 
homes,  and  let  me,  an  unoffending  stranger, 
alone.  Certainly  my  opinion  on  the  subject  of 
the  use  of  wine  is  absolutely  of  no  importance. 
Because  I  have  wandered  by  the  brookside 
watching  little  fishes  or  listening  to  little  birds 
in  the  bushes  above  the  water,  is  apparently  no 
reason  why  strangers  should  be  curious  as  to 
what  appears  upon  my  table.  These  same 
people  do  not  question  their  butcher  and  baker, 
but  swallow  their  wares  without  comment,  but 
hesitate  to  swallow  mine  until  assured  there  is 
no  alcohol  in  my  drink.  I  will  not  say  of  all 
this  that  it  matters  nothing,  for  it  does.  It  shows 
that  fanaticism  can,  like  ambition,  overleap  itself. 
The  author  of  a  book  is  not,  more  than  another, 
his  brother's  keeper,  and  the  would-be  reader 
who  wishes  to  know  in  advance  whether  or  not 
I  use  wine  is  a  reader  not  worth  having.  I 
have  never  felt  it  a  duty  to  devote  a  page  or 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        269 

two,  now  and  then,  to  temperance!  My  critical 
correspondents  should  first  wait  until  I  have 
advocated  some  practice  objectionable  to  them 
before  assuming  what  is  my  attitude  towards  it, 
and  commenting  thereupon. 

"  What  stand  hast  thou  taken  with  reference 
to  liquor?  I  fear  thee  does  not  look  upon  it 
with  unalterable  disapproval,  from  a  remark  in 
one  of  thy  books."  Here  is  an  instance  of  a 
solid  shot  sent  point-blank  into  my  unsuspecting 
self.  The  page  or  chapter  is  not  given,  so  I 
know  not  where  to  look,  and  would  not  take 
the  trouble  if  I  did.  I  do  not  make  a  practice 
of  asking  people  for  advice  or  information,  if  I 
can  get  the  former  through  experience  or  the 
latter  from  the  encyclopaedia,  but  here  is  some- 
thing different.  I  would  that  some  one  would 
tell  me,  and  give  me  logical  reasons,  why  I 
should  forego  my  glass  of  currant  wine  on 
Christmas  eve,  to  which  I  have  been  accustomed 
from  my  youth  up.  That  glass  never  led  me 
to  empty  the  bottle  any  more  than  the  accom- 
panying bit  of  fruit-cake  led  to  the  demolition, 
by  me,  of  the  whole  loaf.  I  note  that  my  cor- 
respondent is  a  Friend,  and  I  further  note  that 


270  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


not  all  Friends  have  yet  ceased  to  make  cur- 
rant wine,  nor  do  they  manipulate  it  in  such  a 
way  that  it  is  non-alcoholic. 

When  the  first  ciderless  mince-pie  came  upon 
a  certain  farmer's  table,  the  good  man  remarked, 
"  Martha,  thee  has  certainly  made  some  mis- 
take. I  will  take  a  piece  of  the  pumpkin." 
As  I  view  it,  Martha  had  made  a  very  big  mis- 
take, and  so  do  some  of  my  correspondents. 

But  let  us  to  a  more  cheerful  subject  Here 
is  a  pile  of  begging  letters  that  reached  me 
soon  after  the  appearance  of  a  little  book.  The 
impression  seems  to  be  in  every  case  that  an 
"author's  copy"  costs  nothing.  That  happy 
individual  has  but  to  direct  the  sending  of  the 
volume  to  So-and-So,  and  there  the  matter  ends. 
One  correspondent,  an  Indiana  schoolmistress, 
tells  me  as  much,  and  her  letter  in  particular  is 
worthy  of  a  moment's  consideration.  She  in- 
forms me  that  she  does  not  suppose  my  copy- 
right interest  is  more  than  ten  per  cent,  and 
so  the  book  was  only  worth  fifteen  cents  to  me, 
and  she  did  not  think  that  too  much  to  ask  for. 
Where  under  the  sun,  as  thus  viewed,  does  the 
publisher  come  in?  I  asked  her  as  much, 


'Correspondents  and  Critics.        271 


promising  the  book  on  receipt  of  a  satisfactory 
reply,  for  which,  I  will  add,  I  am  still  waiting. 
Publishers  cannot  say  henceforth  that  I  have 
not  been  duly  alive  to  their  interests.  So  far 
as  I  am  aware,  merchants  are  not  plagued  with 
letters  asking  a  gift  of  the  wares  in  which  they 
deal.  Schoolmistresses,  even,  do  not  beg,  but 
buy  their  candy  and  clothing,  so  why  not  the 
books  they  desire  ?  To  single  out  the  product 
of  an  author's  brain  from  all  other  material 
things  as  objects  not  coming  under  commercial 
considerations  is,  from  the  author's  point  of 
view,  inexplicable.  It  is  sadly  true  there  is 
precious  little  money  in  the  average  book,  but 
then,  just  so  much  the  more  reason  for  the 
author  wishing  to  receive  the  whole  of  that 
little.  I  do  not  know  if  publishers  are  as  pes- 
tered as  are  authors  in  this  way  ;  probably  not ; 
and  certainly  the  former  are  not  sentimental 
to  the  point  of  startling  generosity  unless  some 
how  or  way  they  are  roundly  well  paid  for  it. 
May  the  Indiana  schoolmistress  never  see  my 
concluding  sentence  :  what  wonderful  people 
do  we  have  in  this  world,  truly ! 

One  letter — from  a  man  this  time — asks  me 


272  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

how  I  interpret  Nature,  and  goes  on  to  say  he 
cannot  for  the  life  of  him  see  very  much  when 
he  takes  a  walk.  "  I  know  a  tree's  a  tree  and 
a  rock's  a  rock,  but  then  I'm  stuck."  He  is  not 
one  whit  more  stuck  than  I  am  in  trying  to 
reply.  I  have  been  trying  for  six  months  to 
formulate  some  sort  of  answer  and  have  only 
gotten  so  far  as  "  Dear  Sir."  "The  Interpre- 
tation of  Nature"  is  a  very  pretty  title  for  an 
essay,  but  who  dare  tackle  it  ?  Thoreau  might 
have  done  so,  but  our  home  fields  have  been 
left  without  a  master-hand  since  his  day. 

I  have  nothing  to  say  upon  the  art  of  inter- 
preting Nature,  for  that  is  really  what  my  cor- 
respondent means,  but  here  are  thoughts  that  I 
have  had  upon  the  subject ;  disjointed  think- 
ing, as  I  rambled  all  too  aimlessly  down  the 
wood-path  and  over  the  ever-suggestive  mead- 
ows. I  cull  these  brevities  from  many  note- 
books, picking  here  and  there  among  the  many 
mentionings  of  bird  and  beast  and  flower. 

Life  is  short  at  best,  and  to  no  one  is  given 
intellectual  range  to  cover  the  whole  field  of 
knowledge.  We  are  necessarily  dependent  upon 
others  for  the  greater  part  of  what  we  acquire 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        273 

in  the  way  of  information,  and  how  disheartening 
to  find  a  cherished  fact  gathered  from  one  source 
asserted  to  be  but  a  fancy  in  another.  What 
are  we  to  believe  ?  This  is  a  gloomy  question 
that  dogs  our  steps,  harries  our  nerves,  and 
proves  hopelessly  confusing  from  early  manhood 
to  life's  close. 

The  interpretation  of  Nature  !  She  yet  needs 
to  be  interpreted  in  many  directions  and  the 
cloud  lifted  that  still  renders  misty  what  should 
be  clear  as  noonday.  It  is  true,  as  bright  rain- 
drops come  from  murky  clouds,  so  crystal  clear 
facts  are  born  of  doubt  and  wrangling,  but  is 
such  a  birth  a  necessity  ?  Nature  does  not  with- 
hold the  truth,  but  into  what  strange  vessels  do 
the  precious  facts  occasionally  fall  !  Vessels  that 
have  some  malign  power  by  which  the  plain 
is  rendered  obscure  ;  the  clear  made  murky  ;  the 
direct  and  straight  made  aimless  and  crooked. 
He  is  the  exception,  we  are  almost  led  to  think, 
who  can  carry  from  the  laboratory  to  the  world 
at  large  a  newly  acquired  fact  without  marring 
its  beauty  or  befogging  its  significance.  Can  it 
be  that  the  remedy  lies  within  ourselves  ?  This 
is  much  like  making  every  one  the  superior  of 
18 


274          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

his  neighbor  in  his  own  estimation,  and  leads  to 
what  is  thoroughly  to  be  deplored,  a  very  low 
estimate  of  our  neighbor's  capabilities.  On  the 
other  hand,  too  great  confidence  in  our  own 
powers  as  surely  leads  to  so  grave  an  error  as  to 
underestimate  the  strength  of  others.  We  have 
need  to  be  very  humble  when  self-measurement 
is  called  for,  but  do  not  let  the  pendulum  swing 
too  far  in  the  other  direction.  I  long  ago 
elected  myself  the  entire  faculty  of  a  college 
whereat  my  own  conscience  is  the  only  student. 
Success  calls  for  rational  confidence  in  our  own 
powers,  and  the  development  of  these  powers 
must  not  be  left  wholly  with  others.  We  should 
be  reasonably  ambitious  to  express  our  own 
views,  and  not  merely  reflect  the  impressions 
and  beliefs  of  others.  We  need  not  cultivate 
incredulity,  but  a  statement  being  made,  verify 
it  where  possible  rather  than  blindly  accept, 
and  particularly  is  this  called  for  in  the  inter- 
pretation of  Nature's  near-at-hand  and  readily 
approached  phenomena.  We  cannot  all  own 
telescopes,  and  must  accept  our  astronomy  from 
the  fortunate  few  who  nightly  read  the  starry 
skies  and  trace  the  comet's  course  ;  but  we  can 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        275 

own  microscopes  and  use  unaided  eyes  to  our 
own  advantage ;  correcting,  it  may  be,  others' 
errors  and  adding  not  only  to  our  own  stock  of 
knowledge  but  to  that  of  the  world's.  Do  not, 
as  is  so  often  the  case,  believe  that  it  is  always 
your  neighbor  and  never  yourself  whom  Nature 
selects  as  her  interpreter.  Do  not,  above  all 
things,  tremble  in  the  presence  of  learned  great- 
ness, but  ask  yourself  how  it  comes  that  they 
know  so  much  and  you  so  little.  Solve  that 
problem  and  you  have  bridged  the  yawning 
chasm  between  you. 

There  is  no  career  for  man,  or  none  worth 
following,  that  does  not  bring  him  into  more  or 
less  close  contact  with  Nature,  so  why  all  your 
life  a  stranger  to  her?  Your  indifference  will 
not  yield  you  any  extra  dollars.  Ignorance 
may  be  lucky  at  times,  but  in  the  long  run 
knowledge  comes  out  ahead.  Why,  for  in- 
stance, be  not  as  weather-wise  as  your  neighbor? 
If  the  wind  or  clouds  can  be  read,  why  not  read 
for  yourself  and  not  listen  to  another?  One 
newspaper  would  not  meet  the  needs  of  a  vil- 
lage even,  yet  one  naturalist  is  not  to  be  found 
among  ten  thousand  men.  Even  if  mere  trail- 


276  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

sient  pleasures  is  our  life's  aim,  do  we  attain  to 
the  fulness  thereof  shut  up  within  our  little 
selves  ?  We  need  not  fear  that  we  shall  lose  out 
precious  selves  because  we  wander  in  thought 
beyond  the  shadows  of  our  door-yard  trees.  I 
pity  those  who  look  with  admiration  at  the 
bird's-eye  maple  or  wrinkled  oak  that  make  the 
sideboard  and  see  in  them  only  a  pretty  back- 
ground for  sparkling  glass  and  glittering  silver  : 
see  this  only,  and  are  never  carried  in  imagi- 
nation or  actually  go  to  the  forest  where  the  oak 
and  maple  grow.  How  frequently  the  soul  of 
honesty  robs  itself!  How  generally,  I  fancy, 
women  would  cease  to  be  murderers  if  they 
traced  back  the  history  of  the  plumes  in  their 
hats  !  Is  what  Nature  vouchsafes  them  of  so 
poor  a  quality,  unattractive  or  repulsive,  that 
the  skin  of  a  bird  is  called  for  as  an  offset  to 
their  ugliness  ?  Woman  may  think  so,  but  her 
plainness  is  only  the  more  apparent  when 
crowned  with  an  evidence  of  heartlessness.  Be 
she  ever  so  careful,  no  housekeeper  can  prevent 
animal  life  from  crossing  the  door-sill  or  darting 
through  an  open  window.  Around  the  evening 
lamp  curiously  marked  moths  will  flutter  at 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        277 

times,  and  usually  only  call  forth  mild  execra- 
tion, as  they  annoy  us,  while  reading.  Have 
you  frequently,  indeed,  ever,  met  with  the  man 
or  woman  who  laid  aside  newspaper  or  embroid- 
ery for  a  time  to  see  how  many  species  were 
to  be  gathered  by  merely  extending  an  arm  ?  I 
never  met  with  such  a  one  save  once  ;  yet  it  is 
an  incontrovertible  fact  that  no  more  profitable 
evening  can  be  spent  than  in  an  artless  way 
studying  the  entomology  of  the  library  table. 
No  one  is  so  free  of  the  earth,  earthy,  as  not  to 
"cuss"  a  mosquito,  but  how  often  are  they  in- 
telligently discussed  ? 

It  is  not  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  conster- 
nation fills  the  room  if  a  spider  drops  from  the 
ceiling,  and  through  fear  the  room  is  emptied 
if  a  mouse  runs  from  a  corner.  Had  we,  even 
if  ever  so  little,  interpreted  Nature  or  even 
tried  to  do  so  and  failed,  would  not  such  exhi- 
bitions of  our  silliness  be  impossible?  We 
read  in  the  daily  papers — too  often  vehicles  of 
distorted  facts — harrowing  accounts  of  blood- 
poisoning  following  bites  of  mice,  spiders,  and 
even  the  scratch  of  kitty's  claws,  but  what  are 
the  chances  really  of  being  bitten  by  a  mouse 


278  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

or  spider,  or  scratched  by  a  cat ;  perhaps  one 
in  a  million,  and  not  one  in  a  million  bites  are 
poisonous.  Too,  if  we  were  more  disposed  to 
attend  to  Nature  we  would  lessen  our  suscepti- 
bility to  blood-poisoning.  Clear  your  brain 
and  your  blood  will  take  care  of  itself. 

"But  Nature  is  so  uninteresting,"  exclaims 
some  one  in  your  hearing.  When  we  meet 
with  uninteresting  people,  we  generally  remem- 
ber them  as  such  and  avoid  frequent  meetings 
in  the  future ;  but  these  uninteresting  people 
have  some  sense  and  do  not  force  themselves 
into  your  presence.  Nature  never  intrudes,  — 
please  remember  that,  ye  devotees  of  artifi- 
ciality. Nature  is  all  too  often  uninteresting, 
and  why?  Because  we  are  taught  to  turn 
our  backs  upon  her  at  the  very  outsets  of 
our  careers.  The  curious  child,  attracted  by  a 
gaudy  caterpillar,  stops  in  its  play  to  admire  the 
creature  creeping  before  him  and  is  suddenly 
and  violently  snatched  away  by  the  fool  of  a 
nurse,  who  assures  the  disappointed  and  now 
bewildered  child  that  the  caterpillar  will  bite  or 
sting.  A  lie  is  crammed  down  the  child's  throat, 
and  it  will  be  years  before  the  mischief  done  in 


Correspondents  and  Critics.         279 

a  moment  can  be  repaired.  I  have  put  this 
upon  the  ignorant  nurse,  but  the  supposedly 
well  educated  parents  are  not  one  whit  better. 
Educated  !  Yes,  by  courtesy,  we  say  so,  but 
what  a  deviation  from  the  exact  state  of  affairs  ! 
Can  any  one  be  considered  educated  who  has 
absolutely  no  knowledge  of  Nature  ?  To  daily 
handle  objects  and  yet  know  nothing  of  their 
origin,  to  know  a  brick  and  never  to  have 
heard  of  clay,  is  not  to  be  worthily  educated. 
If  a  child's  mind  is  led  in  the  right  direction 
at  the  very  start  and  inquisitiveness,  which  is 
natural,  is  judiciously  encouraged  rather  than 
savagely  repressed,  there  will  be  obviated  the 
great  defect  now  so  prominent,  when  we  survey 
the  minds  of  the  masses,  indifference  as  to 
Nature.  Strangely  enough,  in  later  years,  the 
mistake  of  neglecting  natural  knowledge  is  rec- 
ognized by  many,  and  yet  no  pains  are  taken  to 
prevent  the  children  from  undergoing  their  own 
sad  experiences.  This  is  culpable.  To  see  a 
child  taught  a  downright  lie  and  not  lift  a  finger 
to  prevent  it  occurs  every  day,  yet  the  bystander 
knows  that  the  child  will  suffer  as  he  or  she  has 
done.  There  never  was  a  child  of  sound  mind 


280  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

that  was  not  at  one  time  a  naturalist,  and  how 
far  this  tendency  of  the  intellect  is  to  be  en- 
couraged is  a  question  of  importance.  Not 
every  one  can  be  a  professional  zoologist  and 
devote  a  lifetime  thereto  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  else,  but  interest  in  such  subjects  should 
never  be  chilled.  As  such  matters  are  now 
regulated,  we  find  a  silly  mother  afraid  of  a 
mouse,  and  the  child  must  run  no  imaginary 
dangers.  The  very  mention  of  snakes  blanches 
many  a  cheek,  yet  probably  not  one  dangerous 
snake  is  within  miles  of  the  speaker.  Disad- 
vantageous prejudice  is  inherited,  has  been  since 
the  days  of  distant  ancestry,  and  we  make  no 
effort  to  look  coolly  at  the  facts  and  endeavor  to 
uproot  the  silly  whims  that  have  such  a  clutch 
upon  us.  When  our  remote  ancestry  lived  in 
trees  and  were  in  positive  danger  from  the 
attacks  of  poisonous  serpents,  a  fear  of  snakes 
was  rational.  That  was  the  origin  of  the  men- 
tal status  that  still  enthralls  the  majority  of  the 
people  we  meet,  but  is  it  rational  to  let  an  im- 
pression like  this  go  unstudied  for  some  hundred 
thousand  years  !  It  is  not  true  that  snakes  chase 
people.  If  the  two  happen  to  take  the  same 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        281 


direction,  there  is  no  evidence  of  one  pursuing 
and  the  other  being  pursued.  If  the  frightened 
man  will  stop,  the  snake  will  keep  straight  on, 
and  the  conditions  reversed,  the  man  continuing 
his  course  will  pursue  the  snake.  The  present 
great  art  of  lying  would  be  one  of  the  minor 
accomplishments  if  there  had  been  no  snakes 
in  the  world.  Fish  have  never  damaged  man's 
veracity  like  the  poor,  much  maligned  serpents. 
Is  there,  then,  no  good  reason  for  rational  inter- 
pretation of  Nature  ? 

The  secret  of  successful  interpretation  is  very 
largely  the  determination  of  the  inter-relation 
of  phenomena.  Isolated  facts  are  merely  parts 
of  a  great  whole,  the  recognition  of  which  con- 
stitutes knowledge.  The  mere  gathering  of 
dissociated  facts  has  been  so  long  considered 
the  acquiring  of  an  education,  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at  that  we  have  so  many  learned 
ignoramuses  among  us.  Bald  statements  but 
emphasize  our  ignorance.  The  robin  builds  a 
mud-lined  nest,  the  oriole  a  pendent  one,  the 
bank-swallow  burrows  in  the  cliff;  why?  What 
is  our  mere  statement  but  evidence  that  we  have 
taken  the  first  step  and  could  not  or  will  not 


282  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

take  a  second  ?  Occasionally  we  have  evidence 
in  a  volume  that  many  steps  have  been  taken, 
as  in  "  Origin  of  Species,"  but  how  generally 
are  the  books  set  before  us  but  bundles  of 
finger-posts,  and  these  not  always  set  in  the 
right  directions  !  To  tell  yourself  or  another 
that  frogs  leap  and  snakes  creep  is  to  publish 
yourself  as  yet  in  an  infant  class,  if  you  cannot 
back  your  assertion  with  at  least  the  mechanics 
of  leaping  and  creeping.  If  your  own  desire 
leads  no  farther  than  the  witnessing  of  the  act, 
you  can  never  hope  to  be  a  naturalist.  Strange 
indeed  are  some  of  the  entries  made  in  note- 
books. A  list  of  forty  birds  seen  in  one  day  is 
now  lying  before  me,  with  not  one  word  of 
comment  concerning  a  single  specimen.  Better 
to  have  spent  the  whole  day  with  an  English 
sparrow.  "  It  is  a  contribution  to  geographical 
distribution,"  says  one.  "  The  date  shows  that 
these  birds  are  summer  residents,  if  not  all-the- 
year-round  birds,"  says  another.  "Forty  birds 
seen  and  nothing  more,"  I  reply.  As  to  geo- 
graphical distribution,  it  has  been  done  to  death, 
and  always  will  be,  seeing  it  is  easy  and  the  list- 
makers  outnumber  observers  in  a  wide  sense  ; 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        283 

and  as  to  our  birds,  the  subject  can  never  be 
forever  set  at  rest,  seeing  that  the  birds  will  not 
obey  the  rules,  and  only  laugh  at  notices  to  effect 
that  this  field  belongs  to  another  species  :  No 
trespassing.  Unfortunately,  birds  are  the  arch- 
trespassers  of  wild  life.  There  is  no  barrier 
that  they  cannot  surmount  if  they  choose  to  do 
so  ;  no  solid  sheets  of  air,  like  plate-glass  par- 
titions, through  which  they  cannot  go.  That 
they  do  not  overstep  far  more  than  they  do  is 
to  be  wondered  at,  and  that  geographical  distri- 
bution is  so  much  of  a  factor  of  our  ornithology 
is  strange,  seeing  that  some  of  our  weaker- 
winged  birds  travel  north  and  south  for  an 
enormous  distance  twice  a  year.  That  faunal 
lines  can  be  drawn  where  there  are  no  mountain 
ranges  even  to  be  crossed  is  a  remarkable  feature 
of  this  subject  as  applied  to  my  own  neighbor- 
hood. A  man  can  walk  from  Maine  to  Florida  ; 
any  bird  can  fly  that  distance.  Some  do  so  ; 
why  not  all  ?  Perhaps,  why  do  any  ?  We  have 
not  yet  solved  the  problem  of  migration,  and 
now  the  question  rises,  Has  it  varied  since  the 
earlier  records  of  the  phenomenon  ?  We  know 
that  some  birds  have  left  us  that  were  once 


284  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

abundant,  the  crane,  pelican,  and  even  some 
inland  song-birds,  as  the  mocker  and  summer 
tanager.  Why  ?  Better  determine  this  than  kill 
the  innocents  to  measure  the  curve  of  their  toe- 
nails.  Given  a  real  problem,  we  shrink  from  the 
undertaking  and  fall  back  upon  egg-measure- 
ments. In  one  direction  migration  has  changed, 
it  is  losing  its  regularity,  and  we  are  blessed  with 
longer  visits  from  some  migrants,  and  others  are 
plucky  as  ourselves  and  face  the  winter  with 
even  better  grace.  I  would  like  to  grow  en- 
thusiastic over  winter  catbirds  and  chewinks  at 
Christmas,  but  they  have  as  yet  developed  no 
peculiarities  over  these  same  birds  of  summer. 
They  find  more  berries  than  insects,  but  the 
latter  are  not  wholly  wanting.  There  is  never 
a  day  when  loose  leaves  and  unfrozen  ground  are 
not  to  be  found,  and  here  there  are  creeping 
things  in  numbers,  if  not  innumerable.  I  did 
think  that  the  winter  catbird  lived  exclu- 
sively on  the  berries  of  our  greenbrier ;  now 
I  know  better.  He  hobnobs  gracefully  with 
chewinks,  and  they  toss  over  the  dead  leaves  in 
company,  dividing  the  spoils  and  never  thinking 
of  quarrelling.  No  birds  are  less  associated  in 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        285 

summer.  So  warm  are  many  nooks  and  shel- 
tered ravines  that  the  Maryland  yellow-throat 
forgets  to  consult  the  almanac,  and  seems  to 
mistake  November's  Indian  summer  for  Sep- 
tember sunshine.  Not  always,  not  often,  but 
then  not  rarely.  Will  it  become  a  fixed  habit 
in  time  ?  It  is  such  with  the  catbird,  the  che- 
wink,  and  to  less  extent  the  brown  thrasher. 
They  can  almost  always  be  found  in  the  pine 
woods  or  dense  oak-growths  curtained  with 
usnea  ;  places  where  they  are  not  apt  to  be  in 
summer.  Are  these  pointers  in  the  direction 
of  migratorial  change  of  habit  ?  And  what  of 
the  southward  flight  of  swallows  of  several 
species  that  occurs  in  November,  weeks  after 
our  residents  have  taken  their  departure.  This 
occurs  two,  perhaps  three,  years  in  every  five. 
These  are  matters  that  any  one  can  study,  and 
the  untrained  observer  is  as  well  fitted  to  the 
task  as  many  a  theory-crushed  professional  orni- 
thologist. The  facts  gathered,  the  little  at- 
tendant circumstances  that  may  mean  so  much, 
are  less  likely  to  be  overlooked  by  those  curious 
as  to  such  matters  and  who  have  not  their  senses 
taken  away  because  the  birds  are  out  of  place, 


286          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

out  of  season,  playing  hookey  instead  of  being 
at  school.  Knowledge  is  retarded  by  calling 
an  over-staying  bird  a  "straggler,"  as  it  is 
learnedly  pronounced  to  be.  It  is  a  pestiferous 
word  that  covers  ignorance,  like  "malaria"  so 
constantly  upon  the  tongue  of  the  physician 
when  diagnosis  is  beyond  his  skill.  The  bald 
fact  is,  birds  more  and  more  are  spending  their 
winters  far  north  of  where  they  did  some  years 
ago,  or  else  we  are  just  finding  out  that  the  old 
observers  were  in  error.  The  latter  case  is  not 
probable,  and  now,  recognizing  a  change,  we 
are  given  an  opportunity  to  test  our  skill  in 
solving  a  problem.  We  are  saved  vain  specu- 
lation as  to  influence  exerted  by  a  change  of 
climate,  because  we  have  meteorological  tabu- 
lations showing  that  no  change  has  taken  place 
thermometrically.  It  is  just  as  cold  now  in 
January  as  when  the  pilgrims  landed  or,  proba- 
bly, when  the  Norsemen  sighted  our  shores,  but 
there  is  a  difference  that  may  have  its  bearing 
upon  the  subject,  we  have  less  snow.  Can  it  be 
that  the  absence  of  snow,  making  the  finding  of 
food  more  practicable,  has  its  influence?  It 
will  doubtless  be  urged  that  the  birds  leave 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        287 

long  before  the  time  for  snow.  This  would  be 
a  weighty  argument  did  the  birds  leave  so  early 
in  the  autumn,  but  they  do  not  My  own 
records,  covering  many  years,  go  to  show  that 
over-staying  birds  have  been  observed  most 
frequently  when  the  ground  was  bare,  and  on 
many  occasions  when  the  weather  was  about  as 
cold  as  at  any  time  during  the  winter.  Promptly 
on  the  occurrence  of  a  snow-storm  these  birds 
disappear.  I  can  never  find  them,  but  when 
the  snow  is  melted  they  return.  Where  are 
they  in  the  mean  time?  People  who  do  not 
hourly  consult  the  thermometer  are  unaware  to 
a  great  extent  of  the  ups  and  downs  of  the 
mercury,  and  birds  having  no  such  contrivance 
are  equally  ignorant  of  the  proximity,  at  times, 
to  zero  of  the  sensitive  metal.  Judging  from 
their  actions,  at  least,  we  are  logically  led  to 
presume  so.  Whether  birds  feel  the  cold  or  the 
extreme  heat  is  altogether  another  matter.  It 
is  whether  or  not  they  are  influenced  by  it 
Finding  it  less  formidable  than  they  supposed, 
they  have  stayed  occasionally,  years  ago,  and 
one  after  another  has  followed  the  example  set 
until  now  it  is  not  unusual.  But  was  this  over- 


288          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 


staying  habit  spread  by  example  ?  It  may  seem 
a  childish  question  to  ask,  but  what  of  direct 
communication  of  ideas?  Here,  certainly,  Na- 
ture has  not  been  exhaustively  interpreted.  I 
am  not  aware  that  any  number  of  ornithologists 
have  studied  bird-language  as  something  sepa- 
rate and  apart  from  bird-song.  Does  it  exist  ? 
How  are  we  to  determine  ?  I  have  long  been 
familiar  with  a  man  who  has  lived  all  his  days 
within  sight  and  hearing  of  crows.  He  claims 
to  understand  their  language  and  can  repeat  the 
"words"  that  make  up  their  vocabulary.  Cer- 
tainly, they  seem  to  talk,  but  do  they  ?  Does 
a  certain  sound  made  by  them  have  a  uniform 
significance?  Year  after  year  I  have  listened 
and  watched,  watched  and  listened,  and  won- 
dered if  my  friend  was  right.  He  believes  it.  I 
believe  it.  Is  an  ultimate  positive  assurance  a 
hopeless  expectation  ?  Are  there  limitations  to 
ornithological  interpretation?  We  know  that 
crows  are  cunning,  and  by  their  mother  wit 
have  withstood  the  persecutions  of  mankind  ; 
we  know  that  they  have  a  wide  range  of  utter- 
ances and  not  one  is  intended  to  merely  gratify 
the  ear,  and  yet  we  hesitate  to  say  plainly  that 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        289 

crow  talketh  unto  crow  and  take  counsel  to- 
gether. There  is  no  reason  why  this  should  not 
be  the  case  ;  there  is  abundant  evidence  point- 
ing in  that  direction,  but  no  actual  demonstration 
has  taken  place.  Probably  none  can  be  had, 
and  we  must  be  content  with  inferential  inter- 
pretation. This  is  not  as  useless  as  has  been 
claimed,  and  is  readily  set  aside  when  a  mathe- 
matical demonstration  is  forthcoming.  Long 
association  with  living  birds  results  in  acquiring 
impressions  that  are  far  worthier  of  credence 
than  the  theories  of  holiday  excursionist  bird- 
men  ;  and  the  insulting  charge  of  "  investing 
birds  with  imaginary  attributes"  is  silly  beyond 
comparison,  but  not  surprising  considering  its 
source.  The  farmer  that  has  had  to  battle  with 
crows  and  purple  grackles  and  outwit  the  cun- 
ning of  a  pigeon-hawk  has  interpreted  these 
birds'  mental  status  with  a  higher  average  of 
correctness  than  any  professional  ornithologist 
possibly  could  do.  The  farmer  reaches  the  goal 
of  reasonable  recognition  without  having  any 
such  intention  ;  he  is  taught  without  a  desire  to 
be  informed,  and  with  freedom  from  theoretical 
bias  comes  proportionate  certainty.  He  is  con- 


290          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

vinced  long  before  the  ornithologist  comes  to 
a  definite  conclusion.  When  there  is  agree- 
ment, the  question  is  settled  forever ;  when  a 
divergence,  the  element  of  probability  lies  in  the 
farmer's  direction.  The  birds  about  a  farm- 
house door-yard  are  not  always  the  birds  in  the 
books,  and  for  one  I  prefer  the  former  and  what 
they  have  to  teach  us.  The  bittern  that  goes 
fishing,  at  Christmas,  in  the  open  water  of  the 
home  meadow  is  more  interesting  to  me  than 
those  of  its  kind  that  seek  their  comfort  in  far 
southern  swamps.  I  love  a  bird  at  all  times, 
but  none  more  dearly  than  the  myrtle  warbler, 
that  chirps  in  its  own  cheerful  way  as  it  threads 
the  tangled  tree-tops  when  winter  winds  are 
blowing  ;  and  when  the  Carolina  wren  comes  to 
my  window  and  shouts  its  joy,  though  a  storm 
be  raging,  I  cease  to  work  and  listen. 

But  the  world  is  not  merely  a  big  bird-cage. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  the  meadow-mouse 
that  leaps  away,  bounding  like  a  kangaroo,  yet 
with  no  exaggerated  hind  legs  like  that  animal  ? 
Why  does  it  not  run  merely  and  keep  hidden 
in  the  weeds  ?  Here  is  a  chance  to  get  a  closer 
view  of  the  workings  of  Nature  than  the  scalpel 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        291 


alone  will  lead  you  to.  Indeed,  the  action  con- 
tradicts the  knife  ;  the  mouse  doing  that  which 
it  has  not,  in  one  sense,  the  ability  to  do,  or 
not  the  facilities  wherewith  to  do  it.  It  has  an 
emergency  to  meet,  and  must  we  cover  up  our 
ignorance  by  prattle  about  instinct?  These 
mice  are  everywhere  in  the  meadows,  and  not  a 
punky  log  in  the  marsh  but  has  been  tunnelled 
by  them  and  made  a  snug  harbor  against  attacks 
from  enemies,  and  he  is  rash  who  claims  full 
knowledge  of  all  the  dangers  to  which  they  are 
subjected.  We  have  stopped  short  in  our  in- 
vestigations of  the  habits  of  our  most  familiar 
forms  of  wild  life,  and  continually  forget  that 
the  constantly  changing  surroundings  must  have 
some  effect  upon  an  animal's  mentality.  Less 
closely  observed,  mammals  have  given  rise  to 
some  wrong  impressions,  and  the  untechnical 
observer  is  irritating  because  of  his  obstinacy. 
Many  farmers  insist,  and  probably  always  will, 
that  our  common  mole  eats  sweet  potatoes  and 
the  seed  of  watermelons  that  have  so  often  to 
be  replanted.  Appearances  are  against  the 
moles,  for  they  do  go  through  the  very  spots 
where  the  seeds  and  plants  are  placed,  and  how 


292  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

generally,  from  man  to  the  mole,  does  condem- 
nation descend  with  unpitying  severity,  and  the 
truth  never  regarded,  even  though  trumpet- 
tongued  !  Ignorant  farmer,  in  this  case ;  but 
let  the  learned  mammalogist  be  very  sure  that 
he  has  never  blundered. 

To  return  to  the  meadow-mouse.  By  merest 
chance  I  got  what  I  think  is  an  inkling  of  why  it 
jumps  ;  or  is  it  a  case  of  misinterpreted  appear- 
ances ?  There  was  a  full-grown  garter-snake  in 
pursuit.  Did  the  mouse  keep  closely  to  the 
ground  and  depend  upon  running  only  it  would 
prove  a  short  chase,  but  when  the  pursued  crea- 
ture leaps  above  the  grass,  now  in  one  direction, 
now  in  another,  the  snake  is  bewildered,  and  the 
mouse  gains  sufficient  headway  to  reach  some 
safely  sheltering  spot.  Of  course  the  mouse 
would  soon  become  exhausted  and  the  snake 
ultimately  overtake  it  So,  at  least,  I  interpreted 
what  I  had  witnessed.  Possibly  many  another 
explanation  might  be  brought  forward,  but  I 
am  satisfied  with  my  own  effort  to  make  clear 
the  purpose  of  the  mouse  I  watched,  and  do 
not  obstruct  the  ultimate  acquisition  of  the 
truth  so  long  as  I  am  willing  to  be  set  right 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        293 

where  unquestionably  wrong.  We  can  have 
abundant  faith  in  ourselves  without  losing  faith 
in  others,  and  we  wrong  ourselves  when  we  let 
others  lead  us  wheresoever  we  go,  as  if  blind 
from  birth.  Our  eyes  and  ears  were  not  in- 
tended solely  for  a  few  purely  personal  con- 
siderations. We  dwarf  our  powers  when  we 
survey  a  parlor  or  a  kitchen  but  never  the  land- 
scape, as  we  do,  also,  when  we  discourse  learn- 
edly over  the  merits,  as  food,  of  Delaware  shad 
or  trout  of  the  mountain  brook,  yet  never  see  a 
silvery  minnow  in  the  muddy  mill-pond.  There 
is  not  a  person  living,  perhaps,  who  will  not 
claim  to  know  a  minnow  when  he  sees  it,  but 
you  will  look  in  vain  through  the  entire  range 
of  ichthyological  literature  for  information  as  to 
just  when  and  where  these  same  little  minnows 
lay  their  eggs.  We  are  as  ignorant  to-day  of 
the  habits  of  our  most  widely  spread  species  as 
was  the  Delaware  Valley's  palaeolithic  man  of 
X-rays. 

Thoreau  records  that  he  felt  better  acquainted 
with  a  pretty  purple  grass  when  he  learned  its 
scientific  name.  Before  then  it  stood  aloof; 
something  separate  and  apart  from  the  sur- 


294  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

rounding  objects  seen  in  his  daily  walks  ;  but 
learning  the  names  of  strangers,  do  we  know 
enough?  So  far  as  humanity  is  concerned, 
often  it  is  enough,  you  will  say ;  but  so  unfor- 
tunate a  feeling  should  not  apply  to  the  wild 
life  about  us.  Not  a  creature  that  we  see  but 
serves  some  purpose,  but  if  we  are  asked  what 
that  purpose  is,  the  chances  are  against  our 
ability  to  make  a  worthy  reply.  Man  is  not 
only  in  the  world,  but  of  it.  He  proudly  claims 
to  know  his  own  place  ;  but  he  is  best  informed 
who  knows  not  only  where  he  himself  belongs, 
but  where  every  bird  that  flies,  fish  that  swims, 
and  creeping  creature  crawls  also  belongs. 
He  that  knows  this  sees  with  a  clearer  eye, 
hears  with  a  quicker  ear,  and  walks  with  a 
steadier  gait ;  from  his  youth,  upward  and  on- 
ward, to  the  end. 

Critics  !  One  of  them  stands  forth  for  pro- 
fessional inerrancy  and  says  he  has  no  quarrel 
with  amateurs.  As  the  latter  are  everywhere  a 
vast  concourse  to  one,  what  if  the  army  of 
amateurs  proclaim  their  indifference  to  this  self- 
conscious  professional,  who  can  be  tripped  on 
many  a  page  ?  The  fatal  mistake  of  the  pro- 


Correspondents  and  Critics.         295 

fessional  is  that  the  life-long  amateur  has  neces- 
sarily spent  his  days  in  vain  ;  that  he  has  merely 
tickled  his  fancy  and  pleased  himself  during 
leisure  hours,  but  never  gained  much  knowl- 
edge or  acquired  skill ;  in  short,  merely  hovered 
about  the  skirts  of  the  omniscient  professional, 
ever  looking  at  the  unattainable  with  longing 
eyes  and  ultimately  dying  in  despair.  This,  I 
say,  is  the  view  of  the  professional,  and  just  so 
far  as  it  is  true  the  professional  is  apt  to  make 
himself  ridiculous.  There  are  men  learned  in 
the  law  who  are  not  lawyers ;  men  who  are 
deeply  versed  in  theological  discussion,  yet  are 
neither  bishop,  priest,  nor  deacon  ;  men  who 
know  more  than  the  rudiments  of  medicine, 
though  this  matters  not,  seeing  every  man  is 
a  fool  or  physician  at  forty,  yet  lay  no  claim 
to  M.D.  after  their  names.  So,  too,  it  is  in 
the  study  of  Nature.  There  are  many  men, 
amateurs  or  lovers,  let  us  say,  of  birds,  that  are 
better  authorities,  so  far  as  their  own  neighbor- 
hoods are  concerned,  than  the  petulant  profes- 
sional who  calmly  announces  that  he  has  no 
quarrel  with  amateurs.  Who  under  the  broad 
canopy  of  heaven  cares  if  he  has?  What  the 


296  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

world  wants  is  familiarity  with  the  life  about  it ; 
an  intelligent  knowledge  of  beast,  bird,  and  in- 
sect, and  this  is  sometimes,  yes,  often,  to  be 
had  from  the  pages  of  amateurs,  or  literally, 
lovers  or  enthusiasts  of  the  subjects  treated, 
rather  than  from  the  technical  pages  of  the  pro- 
fessional. Certainly  it  cannot  be  said  that  the 
knowledge  of  the  latter  is  necessarily  accurate, 
or  why  should  these  self-elected  wiseacres  differ 
so  among  themselves?  The  earnest  amateur 
has  as  clear  vision,  as  acute  ears,  and  as  critical 
a  mind  as  any  professional  that  ever  lived.  An 
artist,  on  having  his  attention  called  to  a  brilliant 
sunset,  exclaimed,  impatiently,  that  the  colors 
were  ill  arranged  ;  a  musician,  on  being  asked 
his  opinion  of  the  sunset  song  of  a  thrush,  re- 
plied that  the  discord  jarred  upon  his  nerves  ; 
so  the  professional  ornithologist  seeing  a  bird 
out  of  place,  nesting  out  of  time,  or  singing 
when  it  was  expected  to  be  silent,  shrugs  his 
shoulders  and  mutters,  "  It  is  not  recorded  so  in 
any  book."  Happy  amateurs  !  that  are  moved 
to  take  Nature  as  they  find  it  and  see  beauty  in 
the  sunset  sky,  hear  melody  in  the  wild-bird's 
song,  and  only  wish  they  too  had  been  equally 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        297 

fortunate  when  their  fellows  find  roses  in  Janu- 
ary and  ice  in  June.  To  the  world  at  large,  I 
fancy,  this  enthusiasm  of  amateurs  is  ever  as 
welcome  and  not  less  instructive  than  the  tech- 
nicalities of  the  professional. 

But  it  has  been  claimed  with  much  argument, 
if  not  always  with  logic,  that  critics  should  never 
be  criticised.  That,  in  other  words,  they  were  a 
privileged  class  to  whom  was  allotted  the  privi- 
lege of  saying  what  they  chose,  but  must  not 
be  answered  ;  their  decisions  borne  in  meek- 
ness. It  may  be  very  foolish,  when  called  a 
name,  to  call  back,  but  sometimes  to  do  so 
abounds  in  deep  satisfaction. 

If  there  was  no  more  life  and  suggestiveness 
in  the  bird-world  than  is  recorded  in  the  recent 
hand-books,  outlines  and  nondescript  dilutions 
of  ornithology,  then  the  new  Audubon  societies 
have  no  cause  for  organization  ;  the  birds  are 
of  no  use  that  warrant  their  protection.  Song- 
birds that  do  not  sing,  and  all  birds  that  cut  no 
capers  and  have  too  little  soul  to  animate  their 
feathers,  would  never  draw  us  out  of  our  houses 
to  know  what  happens  in  the  field  or  forest. 
To  know  the  anatomy  of  birds  down  to  the  re- 


298  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

motest  details  is  most  desirable,  but  this  is  the 
beginning,  not  the  end,  of  knowledge  ;  a  fact 
that  the  professional  perpetually  forgets.  A 
man  may  have  an  astonishing  knowledge  of 
men  yet  know  nothing  of  human  anatomy  ;  and 
so,  too,  the  amateur  may  know  exhaustively  the 
birds  that  throng  his  path  from  year  to  year, 
yet  not  the  number  of  feathers  in  their  tails  or 
whether  they  are  more  properly  classified  in 
section  C  than  D  of  Grand  Division  A  or  B. 
That  knowledge  that  comes  to  us  directly  from 
the  field,  through  eyes  and  ears,  has  a  value 
equal  to  any  we  can  derive  from  books,  even 
though  professionals  have  written  them. 

A  serious  error  on  the  part  of  the  proud  pro- 
fessional is  his  contemptuous  reception  or  ill- 
mannered  rejection  of  information  offered  by 
the  native  of  some  backwoods  region  as  to  the 
fauna  and  flora  of  the  locality.  As  if  all  the 
books  and  museums  together  could  be  pitted 
against  the  life-long  experience  of  those  to  the 
manor  born.  It  signifies  nothing  that  the  pro- 
fessional can  show  the  native  no  end  of  objects 
that  he  never  saw  before  and  can  make  plain 
what  previously  was  a  profound  mystery.  That 


Correspondents  and  Critics.         299 

is  but  one  side  of  the  question  ;  for  the  native, 
if  of  ordinary  wit,  can  upset  the  professional's 
preconceptions  of  geographical  distribution  and 
asserted  mathematical  regularity  of  habit.  It  is 
not  wise  to  tell  the  native  that  this  or  that  crea- 
ture is  not  to  be  found,  or  that  it  is  here  now 
but  not  then,  and  all  such  rubbish.  When  I 
heard,  years  ago,  that  mighty  hunter,  Tin-cup 
Tommy,  told  that  there  was  not  an  otter  in  all 
Crosswicks  Creek,  I  happened  to  catch  a  strange 
glitter  in  his  eye  and  overheard  the  scarcely 
breathed  oath  that  accompanied  his  comments. 
Well,  Tin-cup  Tommy  sold  two  otter-skins  that 
winter,  and  he  trapped  both  animals  in  Cross- 
wicks  Creek.  When  a  learned  naturalist,  some 
years  later,  said  in  his  hearing  that  English 
snipe  never  nested  here,  he  pinched  my  arm 
in  a  very  meaningful  manner,  and  brought  nest, 
eggs,  and  old  birds  to  town  to  prove  that  they 
did,  and  he  was  not  again  contradicted  in  that 
quarter.  When  asked  if  barn-owls  were  com- 
mon, he  said  he  could  bring,  if  wanted,  a  basket- 
full  of  "  monkey  faces,"  and  did.  I  wish  I  dare 
put  upon  the  printed  page  his  own  words, 
good  round  oaths  and  all,  when  he  asked  me, 


300  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

"  What's  the  matter,  anyhow,  with  them  fellers 
from  town.  They  know  a  heap,  but  somehow 
they've  missed  knowin'  it  all."  That  is  the 
whole  matter  in  a  nutshell.  They  miss  know- 
ing it  all,  and  he  who  would  be  so  far  accom- 
plished— no  one  ever  can  be — or  approach  it, 
must  give  his  life  as  practically  to  the  subject  as 
did  my  old  friend  Tommy.  He  was  as  much  a 
feature  of  the  meadows  as  any  mink  or  musk- 
rat  ;  ay,  as  any  minnow  in  the  creek. 

It  is  all  very  well  for  the  closet  student  of 
anatomy  and  bibliography  and  the  learned  ad- 
vocates of  trinomial  nomenclature  to  pose  as  the 
guardians  of  our  inferior,  amateurish  intellects, 
but  they  should  always  remember  that  they  do  so 
by  their  own  appointment,  and  not  feel  aggrieved 
if  they  are  occasionally  overlooked,  or  even 
asked  to  stand  aside.  It  is  not  the  geologist 
who  finds  the  lump  of  gold,  but  the  fellow  with 
pick  and  shovel ;  the  geologist  comes  later,  to 
tell  us  how  it  all  came  about 

The  professional,  unfortunately  for  himself, 
becomes  too  theoretical,  and,  having  devised  a 
system,  sees  through  ill-adjusted  spectacles. 
Every  straight  line  is  crooked,  every  crooked 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        301 

one  endlessly  angular.  He  would  have  the 
wild  life  of  the  universe  as  obedient  to  him  as 
the  tyrant  of  a  school-teacher  has  or  would 
have  the  trembling  scholars,  but,  alas  !  wild  life 
will  not  be  obedient.  The  poor  fellow  who 
was  all  upset  when  he  first  heard  of  a  batrachian 
chorus  in  November  would  have  gone  into 
spasms,  probably,  had  he  walked  over  my 
meadows  on  December  17,  1897,  when  the  air 
trembled  with  the  croakings  of  ten  thousand 
frogs.  I  do  not  know  what  would  be  his  ex- 
planation of  a  barn-owl  nesting  in  October,  but 
not  an  old  gunner  hereabouts  but  knows  that 
more  than  one  kind  of  owl,  that  live  all  the  year 
round  in  some  hollow  tree, — a  fixture  as  much 
as  a  man  that  lives  in  his  own  house, — is  not  at 
all  regular  in  its  breeding,  and  young  with  down 
and  "hair"  have  been  seen  in  winter.  The 
amateur  does  not  know  who  is  to  blame,  but 
snow  will  fall  in  April,  covering  the  ground  and 
drifting  as  beautifully  as  ever  in  January.  Very 
odd  to  the  people  who  dwell  in  town,  but  very 
commonplace  to  the  unprofessional  rustic.  After 
all,  it  is  not  strange.  Too  little  attention,  for  all 
these  years,  has  been  given  to  the  fact  that  as 


302  Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

the  surface  of  the  earth  was  rapidly  changing, 
forests  turned  to  treeless  fields,  swamps  turned 
to  dry  pastures,  streams  obliterated  or  directed 
into  artificial  channels,  Nature's  handiwork,  in 
short,  swept  out  of  existence  ;  so,  if  wild  life 
was  to  stay  at  all,  it  must  face  the  problem  of 
a  changed  surrounding  and  alter  its  ways  of 
living  accordingly.  The  fact  that  the  frog's 
epithalamium  is  a  characteristic  feature  of  spring 
is  no  reason  for  supposing  that  the  creature 
must  necessarily  be  mute  as  an  oyster  at  all 
other  times  ;  but  to  say  so  seemed  so  pretty  a 
statement  when  originally  made  by  some  closet 
naturalist,  that  down  into  the  books  it  went  and 
there  it  stays.  I  do  not  know  how  long  a  flying- 
squirrel  lives,  but  there  has  been  a  colony  of 
them  in  the  attic  of  my  house  for  more  than 
half  a  century.  Those  now  living  over  my  head, 
and  that  turn  night  into  day,  are  as  much  crea- 
tures of  the  house  as  any  mouse  in  the  wall. 
It  is  true  they  go  abroad  more  and  have  not 
lost  their  flight  power,  but  I  am  sure  they  would 
feel  strangely  enough  if  suddenly  taken  to  a 
forest  and  found  themselves  with  no  such  shelter 
as  my  house  affords.  They  have  learned  to 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        303 

recognize  a  human  being ;  not  to  the  extent 
of  being  dangerously  trusty,  but  not  frightened 
out  of  their  wits  when  they  meet  me  face  to 
face. 

Too  much  has  been  inferred  from  a  limited 
range  of  observation  ;  but  this  is  no  excuse  for 
the  silly  contradictions  on  the  part  of  profes- 
sionals to  the  assertions  of  amateurs.  My  green 
herons  are  not  solitary,  but  distinctly  social  ;  my 
wood-ducks  do  breed  regularly  and  abundantly 
near  here  and  have  always  done  so.  The  Eng- 
lish snipe  nests  in  these  meadows  nearly  every 
summer.  King-rails  are  abundant  in  the  mucky 
meadow,  and  so  a  long  chapter  could  be,  but 
need  not  be,  written  about  such  matters.  My 
earnest  advice  to  amateurs  is  to  depend  upon 
their  own  powers  and  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  pro- 
fessionals, except  where  technicalities  are  re- 
quired. Not  that  the  professional  is  unin- 
formed, but  in  proportion  as  you  depend  upon 
him  you  lose  confidence  in  yourself.  Rather 
be  a  law  unto  yourself  and  only  unto  yourself. 
Place  your  own  ability  in  the  highest  place  and 
look  down,  not  up.  The  professional,  remember, 
never  invites  you  to  be  other  than  his  slave  ; 


304          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

but  so  train  your  own  self  that  you  can  dare  to 
make  of  the  professional  a  servant  and  not  a 
master. 

The  professional  has  his  place,  and  a  pre- 
eminently prominent  one  it  is  ;  so  prominent 
and  elevated  indeed,  that  from  the  exalted 
height  the  level  plains  of  the  amateur's  world 
are  not  seen  distinctly.  Bewildered  and  be- 
dizzied,  the  professional  mars  not  makes  for 
dignity  by  over-estimation  of  himself.  His 
great  good  fortune  in  reaching  professional 
rank  proves  occasionally  too  great  and  sober- 
ness is  over-balanced.  Why  he  so  lauds  him- 
self and  smiles  with  a  pitying  glance  on  the 
modest  amateur  is  not  readily  explained.  It 
does  not  decrease  the  amateur's  value,  and  cer- 
tainly does  not  add  height  or  depth  or  breadth 
to  professional  erudition.  The  professor  of 
ornithology  can  issue  no  edict  forever  ending 
ornithic  irregularities ;  cat-bird,  heron,  snipe, 
thrush,  and  owl  will  do  precisely  as  they  please. 
Grasshoppers  will  caper  over  the  snow,  eels 
wander  overland,  and  catfish  brave  the  air  upon 
occasion.  Opossums  will  walk  the  streets  of  a 
town,  raccoons  hide  in  cellars,  and  weasels  attack 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        305 

men  ;  a  thousand  things  occur  that  are  in  the 
line  of  unusual  occurrence,  but  not  so  unusual 
as  some  would  have  us  believe.  It  is  but  an 
exhibition  of  ignorance  to  call  anything  not  in 
the  line  of  supposed  habits  an  "accidental  oc- 
currence," and  so  of  no  significance.  How  do 
these  offensively  bumptious  professionals  know 
that  it  is  "accidental"?  Have  they  been  for 
years  so  much  abroad,  or  does  every  "acci- 
dental occurrence"  flatly  contradict  the  known 
course  of  any  creature's  life?  The  amateur 
will  ever  do  himself  a  service  in  turning  a  deaf 
ear  to  these  snap  judgments  of  professionals. 
Every  unusual  happening  is  an  added  fact  for 
the  amateur  of  which  he  can  make  good  use. 
The  amateur  can  be  happy,  and  wisely  so,  with 
his  few  facts  or  many  as  the  case  may  be  ;  but 
no  professional,  be  he  ever  so  wise,  but  has  yet 
something  more  to  learn.  His  will  not  be  a 
well-rounded  and  worthy  career  until  he  learns 
to  look  with  respect  upon  amateurs  and  what 
they  know  and  do,  for  all  too  likely  are  the 
chances  that  from  them  his  incomplete  pro- 
fessional knowledge  might  receive  a  few  finish- 
ing touches  that  lacking,  leaves  him,  at  last, 


306          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

standing  before  the  world  an  unfinished  monu- 
ment to  erudition. 

An  amusing  feature  of  this  matter  is  the 
question  of  veracity.  Now,  I  speak  soberly 
when  I  say  that  the  most  recklessly  inexact 
man  I  ever  met  is  a  geologist.  He  no  more 
considers  facts  that  jostle  his  theories  than  he 
does  the  ground  upon  which  he  treads.  To  be 
sure,  few  people  read  geological  essays,  and 
surely  none  of  his  will  find  their  way  to  text- 
books, so  little  mischief  is  done.  Lackeys  of 
government  bureaus  too  often,  to  make  sure  of 
their  salaries,  are  forced  to  keep  their  mouths 
shut  or  to  lie  !  Now,  any  amateur,  be  he  ever 
so  careful,  may  prove  to  be  mistaken.  He  may 
see  one  thing  and  believe  it  to  be  another ;  but 
the  professional  is  treading  on  very  thin  ice 
when  he  flatly  contradicts  the  amateur's  state- 
ment ;  particularly  when  there  is  no  impossi- 
bility entering  into  the  case.  Fight  the  ama- 
teur's statement  as  improbable  by  all  means, 
but  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  flatly  contra- 
dict it, — dangerous,  because  when  the  amateur 
proves  that  he  is  correct  these  same  profes- 
sionals invariably  decline  to  take  back  their 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        307 


offensive  words,  and  righteously  merit  the 
occasional  castigation  they  receive.  Perhaps, 
though,  all  things  considered,  such  attacks 
should  not  be  considered  offensive.  I  believe 
the  amateur  is  wise  in  paying  no  attention  to 
them.  They  reflect  only  upon  those  who  make 
them,  and  the  world  gives  little  heed  to  such 
matters.  The  people  ask  for  facts,  not  theories, 
when  it  is  a  question  of  natural  history.  A 
notable  instance  of  this  is  in  the  recent  off-hand 
dictum  of  a  world-renowned  archaeologist  who 
has  never  seen  the  valley  of  the  Delaware  unless 
from  a  car-window,  but,  accepting  the  assertions 
of  an  incompetent  and  reckless  theorist,  says 
that  we  have  no  evidence  of  man's  antiquity 
hereabouts.  I,  who  have  lived  here  all  my  life, 
say  that  we  have.  The  world  is  free  to  choose 
between  us.  It  is  just  such  instances  as  these 
that  confuse  the  mind  of  the  general  public  and 
sometimes  dishearten  amateurs,  who  have  en- 
thusiastically entered  upon  the  investigation  of 
what  Nature  has  done,  and  is  doing,  in  their 
own  neighborhoods. 

Not  a  syllable  of  comment  on  the  savants  of 
the  day.     There  are  many  such,  and  never  one 


308          Clear  Skies  and  Cloudy. 

too  many ;  but  these  real  students  of  any  sub- 
ject are  students  at  heart  always,  and  never  turn 
a  deaf  ear  to  the  suggestions  of  some  humble 
thinker  to  whom  Nature  may  have  made  a  sug- 
gestion. Certainly,  it  is  incumbent  upon  every 
right  thinking  man  to  give  every  novel  sug- 
gestion a  respectful  hearing.  Ideas  that  were 
stamped  as  absurd  at  their  birth  have  survived 
the  unjust  assaults  and  later  revolutionized  the 
world  of  thought. 

The  dividing  line  between  amateur  and 
professional  has  never  been  quite  satisfactorily 
drawn.  Some  sudden  change  in  worldly  cir- 
cumstance may  induce  the  amateur  to  make  his 
studies  his  life-work,  and,  Presto  !  Change  !  he 
is  from  that  moment  professional ;  and  what  a 
change  it  sometimes  proves  to  be  !  Ashamed, 
it  would  seem,  of  his  former  self,  he  actually 
looks  down  upon  amateurish  work  with  disdain  ; 
yet  an  unbiassed  observer  cannot  discover  by 
so  much  as  the  breadth  of  a  hair  how  he  of  to- 
day differs  from  him  of  yesterday. 

The  amateur  naturalist  has  everything  to  be 
thankful  for  and  few  reasons  for  serious  sorrow. 
Far  removed  from  a  controversial  atmosphere, 


Correspondents  and  Critics.        309 

it  is  his  to  breathe  the  unpolluted  air  of  the  field 
and  forest ;  to  see  and  hear,  to  taste  and  smell 
and  touch,  yet  never  to  be  weighted  with  the 
doubts  with  which  the  wrangling  professionals 
befog  the  pleasant  landscape.  Their  knowledge 
may  be  untechnical,  but  so  far  as  it  extends  it 
is  not  untrue,  and  that,  and  that  only,  is  the 
worthy  aim,  the  honorable  ambition,  of  the 
honest  amateur. 


Index. 


A. 

Alder,  black,  201. 

Animals,  aquatic,  in  winter, 

26. 

Ants,  115. 
April  showers,  70. 
Audubon  Societies,  152. 
Autumn  leaves,  36. 
Azalea,  253. 

B. 
Bear,  219. 

tooth  of,  30. 
Beaver,  30. 
Beech,  238,  243. 
"  Beeches,  Three,"  great  age 

of,  256. 
Birch,  silvery,  30. 

yellow,  258. 

Bird-nesting,  blunders  in,  76. 
Birds,  flight  of,  90. 

geographical  distribution 
of,  282. 


Birds,  language  of,  288. 

migration  of,  92,  283. 

protection  of,  133. 

song  of,  288. 

' '  stragglers' '        among, 
286. 

value  of,  134. 
Bittern,  290. 

least,  183. 

Black-birds,  red-winged,  69. 
Blue-bird,  149,  154. 
Boa-constrictor,  195. 
Boneset,  195. 
Buzzard,  turkey,  130. 

C. 

Cardinal,  173,  255. 

Cat-bird,  45,  156,  284,  304. 

Catfish,  304. 

Cat,  "wild,"  6l. 

Cedar,  23. 

Chat,  yellow-breasted,  124. 

Chewink,  284. 

3" 


312 


Index. 


Chickadee,    21,   33,    38,   65, 

69,  206,  261. 
friendly  disposition  of,  45. 
Chippy,  93,  154. 
Clay,  219. 

Colorado,  canons  of,  246. 
Condor,  127. 
Coot,  187. 
Cougar,  191. 
Creek,  Crosswicks,  186,  233, 

299. 
Creeks,  archaeological  traces 

of,  118. 

geological  traces  of,  117. 
Creeper,  tree,  21,  175. 

Virginia,  254. 
Crosswicks  creek,   186,  233, 

299. 

age  of,  117. 
Crow,  31,  35,  37,  42,  56,  68, 

101,  148,  164,  180,  248. 
Crows,  conversation  among, 
43- 

D. 

Dabchick,  187. 
Deer,  219. 

Delaware  Valley,  archaeology 
of,  307. 


Dodder,  137,  195. 
Dogwood,  252. 
Duck,  wood,  no. 

E. 

Eagle,  bald,  184. 
Education,  incompleteness  of 
ordinary,  279. 

F. 

Falcon,  black,  59. 

Fish,  ignorance   of  habits  of, 

281. 
silvery,   seen    in    water, 

142. 

voracity  of,  28. 
Flicker,  69. 

Flowers,  skeletons  of,  17,  36. 
Flycatcher,  great-crested,  52, 

101. 

Fox,  cunning  of,  50. 
Friends,  Society  of,  266. 
Frost,  curious  effects  of,  17. 

G. 

Glacial  drift,  189. 
period,  115. 


Index. 


Gnat-catcher,  blue-gray,  253. 
Golden  rod,  137. 
Goldfinch,  172. 
Grape-vine,    strange    growth 

of,  253. 

Grasshoppers,  304. 
Green  brier,  195. 
Grosbeak,  rose-breasted,  52, 
87,  92,  132,  255. 
song  of,  99,  1 20. 
Grouse,  ruffed,  198. 
Gull,  sea,  56,  68. 
Gum-tree,  258. 


H. 

Hair  bird,  92. 
Hawk,  black,  241. 

cries  of,  56. 
Hawks  in  winter,  59. 
Hazel  bush,  138. 
Heron,  great  blue,  183,  304. 

green,     88,     130,     303, 

3°4- 

Hickory,  shellbark,  149. 
Holly,  201. 
Homer,  218. 
Humming-bird,  104. 
Hyssop,  195. 


I. 

Ice,  25. 

Indian  camp-site,  30,  59. 

summer,  285. 

trail,  190. 
Indigo  bird,  92. 
Inexact,  charm  of  the,  208. 
Insect  life,  113. 
Iron  weed,  137,  195. 
Ivy,  poison,  254. 

J- 

Jay,  blue,  22,  31,  65,  69,  88, 
148. 

K. 

Kalm,      Peter,      mentioned, 

191. 
Kelvin,  Lord,  on  age  of  earth, 

117. 

Kingfisher,  88. 
Kinglet,  golden  crowned,  21, 

261. 

L. 

Lark,  meadow,  69. 

whistle  of,  56. 
Lobelia,  scarlet,  141. 


3H 


Index. 


Lotus,  138,  178. 

Lowell,    J.    R.     quoted,    19, 

82. 
Lucretius,  quoted,  260. 

If. 

Man,  glacial,  18. 
Mice,  fear  of,  280. 

meadow,  30,  59. 
Milestone,  an  old,  189. 
Mink,  27,  III. 
Minnows,  29,  219,  293. 
Mist,  frozen,  effects  of,  19. 
Mistletoe,  201. 
Mole,  common,  291. 
Mosquito,  277. 
Mouse,  meadow,  290. 

white-footed,  66,  157. 
Mud  minnow,  26. 
Mulberry,  244. 
Murex,  color  of,  261. 
Musk-rat,  26,  30,  37,  59. 

winter  houses  of,  40. 

N. 

Nature,  interpretation  of,  272. 

why  uninteresting,  278. 
Nuthatches,  21,  38. 


Oaks,  138,  226,  243. 

Opossum,  61,  304. 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  78, 92, 122, 

200,  281. 

Otter,  27,  30,  299. 
Owl,  barn,  178,  299,  304. 
nest-robbing,  80. 

P. 

Pee-wee,  45,  70,  92,  256. 
Pike,  26,  219. 
Pine,  243. 
Pipsissewa,  202. 
Plant-life,  aquatic,  25. 
Pointblank,  Philander,quoted, 

251. 
Prince's  pine,  202. 

Q. 

Qua  bird,  88. 
Quail,  176,  198,  219. 


R. 

Rabbits,  220. 
Raccoon,  30,  61,  304. 


Index. 


Rail,    king,     abundance    of, 

303. 
Red-bird,  69. 

call  of,  56,  IOI. 
Redstart,  101. 
Rhododendrons,  58. 
Riker,  John,  agility  of,  152. 
Robin,  69,   78,   82,  87,   114, 

124,  128,  281. 
Rose-mallow,  137,  178. 

S. 

Sassafras,  57,  238,  254. 
Savage,  primeval,    traces   of, 

249. 

Shad,  293. 
Shakespeare,  218. 
Shelter,  poetry  of,  107. 
Showers,  summer,  109. 
Shrew,  261. 
Skunk,  61. 
Snail,  144. 

Snake,  garter,  195,  292. 
Snakes,  fear  of,  280. 
Snipe,    English,    nesting   of, 

299,  303>  304- 
Snowbirds,  20,  197,  260. 
Sparrow,    English,    45,    149, 

282. 


Sparrow,  field,  71. 

song,  27,  31,  62,  69,  77, 
124,  256. 

tree,  20,  21,  33,  38. 

vesper,  69. 

white-throated,  65. 
Sphagnum,  252. 
Spicewood,  73. 
Spider,  115. 

webs,  156. 

Squirrel,  gray,  60,  65. 
Squirrels,    hoarding  of    nuts 

by,  259. 
Strawberry,  95. 
Sucker,  26. 
Sunfish,  27. 
Sunrise,  merits  of,  96. 
Swallow,  bank,  nest  of.  281. 
Swallows,    late  migration  of, 

285. 

Swift,  chimney,  92. 
Sycamore,  hollow,  as  shelter, 
109. 

T. 

Tanager,  255. 
Teal,  223. 

Thoreau,  H.  D.,  mentioned, 
35,  65. 


316 


Index. 


Thrush,    wood,   45,    82,    98, 

220,  255,  304. 
Tit,  crested,  21,  45,  69,  147, 

172. 

Tobacco,  use  of,  266. 
Tree-sparrow,  20,  21,  33,38. 
Trout,  293. 
Tulip-tree,  250,  253. 
Turtles,  28. 

V. 

Vireos,  87,  104,  124. 

W. 

Warbler,  myrtle,  290. 

summer,  101. 
Warblers,  migrating,   70,  82, 

87. 
Wax-wings,  58. 


Weasel,  304. 
Whippoorwill,  130,  177. 
Wild  life,  sudden  appearance 

of,  ill. 
Willow,    hollow,    as   shelter, 

"5- 
weeping,  141. 

Wine,  use  of,  269. 
Woodcock,  176,  220. 
Woodpecker,  36. 

red-headed,  176. 
Wren,  Carolina,   31,   63,  69, 
101,     103,     173,    201, 
290. 

house,  79,  82,  92.  127. 
winter,  21,  261. 

Y. 

Yellow-throat,         Maryland, 
101,  285. 


A     000  051  987     6 


